The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"I can explain," he said as an almost overpowering lemon scent met my nose.

The look of complete and utter panic was what had me pausing, biting my tongue, not demanding he take his weird ass right out of my house.

Panic.

Because he was caught?

No.

That didn't seem quite right.

Because mingled in with that panic was a mixture of shame and something that seemed to resemble desperation.

"Okay, fine," I grumbled, raking a hand through my hair that had to be all kinds of unattractive. I'd lost my hair tie in sleep, always having been someone who flip-flopped across the bed like a fish out of water. "But I need caffeination first," I said, ignoring the wetness under my feet as I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Finn didn't follow me.

From my position in the kitchen, though, I could see him in the living room, one forearm resting against the wall, with his head lowered.

Shame.

Yes.

That was definitely shame.

The surprise and annoyance slipped away as my espresso brewed. Clearly, something was wrong.

I mean, the guy had anxiety, that had been infinitely clear to me at the coffee house.

Maybe this all tied back to that.

He was obsessive-compulsive or something like that.

That would explain why he hadn't settled down on my—not filthy, but not sparkling clean—couch.

I finished making my coffee, then made my way out to the living room to find Finn sitting on the top step of his mini ladder, his forehead cradled in his hands. And those hands were red from the hot water and cleaning solution, the cuticles rimmed with a bit of fresh blood.

I could feel a wave of sympathy move through me as I moved closer.

"Hey," I called, trying to make my voice sound soothing—something I wasn't known for, and something I wasn't sure I accomplished, either. "It's alright."

"No, it's not," he objected, studying his feet instead of me.

"Finn, do I seem like someone who bullshits someone else just to make them feel better?" I asked.

"No," he admitted with a snort.

"Exactly. So, you know if I'm saying it's fine, it's fine."

"It's not, though. It's invasive."

"Alright, maybe a little," I agreed. "But can you help it?"

"Sometimes," he said, shoulders sagging.

"Is it a PTSD-related thing?" I asked, wondering if there was any soft surface in my house to sit on without getting a wet ass. I decided to err on the side of caution by staying standing.

"Yeah," Finn admitted, voice barely audible even though I was only standing a few feet away from me.

"That's what you do when you don't sleep," I guessed.

"Yeah."

"Did you struggle to sleep because my couch is dirty?" I asked, more self-conscious than I should have been since I knew it wasn't dirty-dirty, just dirty by a neat freak's standard.

"I fell asleep for a bit," he said, glance moving upward, then shooting back down again.

"Bad dreams?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"And the cleaning helps?"

"Somewhat."

"Alright. So, then what's the issue?"

"Poppy..." he said, shaking his head, still avoiding eye contact.

"Hey, I got a clean house out of the deal," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"You don't have to pretend it doesn't freak you out."

"It surprised me. I woke up to wet feet. Now that I know, I'm not freaked. I mean, I'm not entirely sure I've ever cleaned those grates on the return vent before. I mean, Finn, would you judge someone for taking to bed when they have depression?" I asked, then plugged on without waiting for a response. "So why would I judge you for cleaning when you can't really control it? I mean, it's not like you broke in. That might have been kinda creepy at this stage. And, you know, anytime in the future that you have the urge to clean and no outlet for it, just drop by and knock," I offered. "I might even make you coffee if I'm feeling friendly. Finn," I called when his head stayed ducked. "Hey," I tried again, moving closer, squatting down. "Really, it's fine. Stop beating yourself up," I demanded, resting a forearm on his leg. The touch had his head finally raising, his gaze meeting mine. "Don't worry," I said again. "I will tell you when you're being a creep."

"Right before misting me in the face with body spray," he said, some of the torment leaving his eyes.

"Well, of course," I agreed.

And then, well, there was a moment.

Eyes locked, gazes sharing a mutual understanding, there was just something sizzling in the air between us.

Or, at least, I thought so.

And I'd never been accused of thinking things like this through.

So I just leaned forward, lips seeking his.

It wasn't until I was just a breath away that I noticed something.

He stiffened.

Stiffened.

Because, of course he didn't want to make out with me.

The man couldn't bring himself to sleep on my couch of a normal level of dirty. He certainly wouldn't be okay with swapping spit with someone.