Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Traitor,” I hiss.
Then the bells on the door jingle as Brady steps inside, something clasped under his arm.
“Lena,” he says with another look that snips my soul in half.
Holy hell. Is this man trying to start a fire with those eyes?
And when he smiles—I’m gone.
There’s a slight tilt to his smile—not quite the rehearsed look I expected.
Unexpected and, somehow, almost worse.
That doesn’t change anything, though.
“Special delivery,” he says, holding up the box under his arm. “Consider it a thanks to the clinic for all your help after hours. Lots of quality dog treats for your visitors.”
I don’t want to accept the box, but before I know what’s happening, he’s shoved it into my arms. The thing must weigh more than ten pounds.
“I also want to apologize,” he says.
“Apologize? For what?” I adjust the box in my arms, keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground.
His gaze flicks to my stance, and a smile tugs at his lips. “For not making a solid first impression. I regret it.”
Oh, so he picked up on the obvious, huh?
Fine, whatever. I don’t want to spend more time here gabbing with him than I need to.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say flippantly. “I’m glad Charlie could crash with you until his owner could pick him up.”
He meets my gaze with those flashing blue eyes that feel more piercing than they have any right to be.
“Actually, I was hoping I could thank you personally. How about a drink later?”
A. What.
My brain shuts down.
Is he seriously asking what I think he is?
“A drink?” I repeat numbly.
“Whenever you’re off shift.” He shifts his weight as he waits for my reply, like he’s certain I’ll leap into his arms.
I don’t even know how to respond.
Not with every muscle in my body locked up.
Some distant part of me screams that I need to stay professional, but I’ve just lost every desire I ever had to be nice because he’s basically asking me at work to be his sidepiece.
Smoking-gun proof he’s every bit the asshat I imagined.
“Absolutely not,” I spit. He blinks in surprise. “I don’t date guys who are taken—crazy, I know—and I’m not interested in men who turn decent human behavior into a spectacle.”
Trust me, I’m being nice, even if I sound like the rudest bitch on earth.
The shock that flits across his face makes the crack in my professional mask worth it.
Dr. Ezzie might have my spleen for spouting off at work, but no one needs spleens, anyway.
“Taken?” His voice loses that smug, almost flirtatious edge. Then he chuckles deeply and shakes his head. “Oh no, you think—I’m not taken at all.”
“Really? You’re telling me you’re not with Miss Attitude?”
“Nancy? Nah, fuck. We’re just friends. And barely.” He shakes his head again, maybe for emphasis, but it just makes me think of Shakespeare—he doth protest too much.
“Friends,” I clip coldly. “She was pretty bossy for a friend.”
“We’re not together,” he insists. “And I’m not—what do you mean, making a spectacle?”
I shrug. “What would you call taking a video of poor Charlie for internet points? You must’ve posted it online.”
A muscle ticks on his jaw, even as keen awareness sweeps across his eyes. I hate noticing how that makes them look. How the color deepens.
“I get how it looks,” he says firmly. “I only took a few clips on my phone so I could post about Charlie to my followers. I’ve got a good-size presence on Instagram and YouTube. I asked them to donate to a charity that helps lost dogs.”
How convenient.
“Great. But even if I believed one iota of that, you are so not my type.”
As in, I would rather go out with a bowl full of worms.
He seems to get what I don’t say from my expression, a thin line appearing between his brows, but before either of us can say more, the door’s bells chime again.
There’s a deafening bark, and a familiar dog explodes inside.
Sherry, a very mildly named Doberman with a huge hyperactive streak and a strange love for visiting the vet. She’s here for a follow-up on a knee scrape, and she’s predictably escaped her owner’s leash.
The deer-dog launches herself at me full force.
I yell as Sherry’s weight hits and sends me spinning, my arms still full of that stupid box of treats that ruins my center of gravity.
My life flashes before my eyes. I see an ER visit in my future. An expensive co-payment. Maybe a potential concussion.
But just when the world tilts and I’m about to hit the hard tiled floor, two strong arms catch me, pressing me against a slab of pure warm stone.
Brady’s chest.
Sherry hits the ground with a loud bark.
And I’m stunned, staring up into Brady’s mesmerizing blue eyes, the concern in them unmistakable.
Oh.
Oh shit.
He smells good, too, all subtle cologne that doesn’t blow my nose off. Fresh sea breeze and citrus and something more primal underneath.