New Leash on Life (The Dogfather Book 2)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “S’okay.” He looked right at Chloe and not the glass that he filled to the top. “I love a challenge.”

  He put the drink in front of her, forgetting a napkin but not a smile. One that was sexy and sly enough that she failed to notice where his finger had touched the rim and now she’d have to put her mouth on him, er, it.

  “So what brings you to Bitter Bark, gorgeous?”

  The bartender, a husky older man, made his way over and gave his grimy pseudo-employee a poke. “Do your pickup work on the right side of the bar, Shane.”

  He flipped the service bar up and stepped out. “Then gimme a Bud Light, Billy, and I’ll keep an eye on the tourists.”

  “I’m not a…” Oh, let him think that. Maybe thinking like a tourist would help her figure out a plan to attract them.

  He slipped onto the next barstool. She braced herself for a whiff of blue-collar sweat, but a surprisingly musky, masculine scent hit her, and she shivered involuntarily as his arm brushed hers when he settled in.

  Because it was covered in dirt, of course.

  “So, what’s your name, buttercup?”

  She closed her eyes. “Chloe,” she said. “My name is Chloe. Not Gorgeous. Not Buttercup.”

  Billy snorted as he put down a beer in front of Shane. “And not interested.”

  Undaunted, Shane turned his barstool to face her. “Chloe.” He said it slow, drawing out the syllables like he wanted his mouth around each one. Then he gulped some beer, eyeing her over the bottle. “That’s perfect,” he said after he swallowed.

  “The beer or the name?”

  “Both.” He eyed her again, openly. “It’s the perfect name for you.”

  Okay, now he was just yanking her chain. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she countered.

  “It means what it says. It’s a perfect name for a perfect woman.”

  She angled her head and met that mesmerizing gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m not from around here and may not speak your language. Was that sarcasm?”

  He laughed. A sound that came from his chest and managed to roll right through Chloe from head to curling toes. “Do you have a hair out of place?” he asked.

  She didn’t have to touch her long dark hair, still pulled back into a neat ponytail the way she wore it for meetings, to know the answer. “Of course not.”

  He reached for her hand and took it in his, shocking her with the unexpected contact and the roughness of calluses. Examining a flawless French manicure she’d gotten the day before, he nodded. “Not a chip in sight.”

  “I have standards.”

  He lifted a brow. “I bet you do.”

  She tugged her hand free and stared down at the manhandled wineglass. That drink looked awfully damn good right now and maybe the only way to manage the onslaught of Dirty Shame.

  Oh hell. Alcohol kills germs, right? She gulped, a little shocked at the cold, light wine and how delicious it tasted.

  “So, New York or DC or Boston?” he asked, studying her intently enough to cause a slow warm burn to slide up her chest.

  “Miami,” she replied.

  “Miami?” He sounded stunned. “Who leaves Miami to come to Bitter Bark?”

  “Exactly what I’d like to know,” she replied. “So tell me five amazing things one would find in this town.”

  “Other than me?”

  She had to laugh. “Then just the other four.”

  “Okay.” He took another sip and thought about that. “This new section around Bushrod Square is pretty. Weather is perfect, and you can see the Blue Ridge Mountains from anywhere you stand.”

  The “mountains” that had been called the “Appalachian Highlands” when she grew up on the other side of them in Kentucky. Proving that a simple and marvelous name change could transform a place from dull to desirable.

  “We have water sports and hiking in the summer and skiing in the winter,” he continued. “And a whole bunch of cute little stores. Was that four?”

  “It was standard.” She let out a sigh and shook her head. “None of that makes this place different or even remotely competitive with Asheville.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What is everyone’s obsession with Asheville?”

  “It’s on the map,” Billy chimed in. “That’s the obsession. The bars are packed, the stores are crowded, and streets are lined with gold.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Shane replied. “You can’t move in this bar on a Saturday night, crowded stores means long lines, and our streets are lined with…”

  “Dog poop,” Billy said, cracking himself up. “Yours are, anyway.”

  Shane glared at him. “What my esteemed colleague is trying to say is that we also have a world-class dog training and rescue business that brings in people from around the country.”

  “Oh yeah.” She nodded, remembering they’d talked about it in the meeting. “The dog place that old guy owned. Daniel something.”

  “Kilcannon,” he supplied, lifting his glass to his mouth, but not hiding a smile. “That old guy?”

  Billy gave a soft hoot and walked away to serve a new customer. But Chloe frowned, looking down at her wine as an invisible thread tugged at her brain. A tendril of possibility. A direction. The very first cloudy fog of an idea. What was it?

  “Yeah,” she said absently, digging deeper into her subconscious like a dog rooting for a bone that he’d once left. Yes, exactly like a…dog. “They talked about some farm with lots and lots of dogs,” she said.

  “Waterford Farm,” he supplied. “It’s not really a farm as much as an elite canine facility.”

  But she forgot the man next to her for a moment as something completely different, and wonderfully familiar, rose a few thousand chills on her skin. It was the blissful, delicious sensation of a brilliant idea about to hatch.

  “If you like dogs,” he said, “I’ll take you there.”

  She curled a lip, not really thinking about her response, because all of her brain power was hard at work on something much more important: exploding with a solution to her problem.

  “Was that face because you don’t like dogs?”

  She just shook her head as the idea took shape in her brain. Still…she didn’t have to like them. “But…”

  “Because if you don’t like dogs, we don’t have a chance, darlin’. I mean, Chloe.”

  “Dogs.” She barely heard the comment and ignored the pet name, because a concept was crystallizing, taking shape, and growing. And that made her whole head buzz. “Something like…” She snapped her fingers, closing her eyes, words popping into her head. “The Town That Went to the Dogs? Who Let the Tourists Out? Get a Better Bark in…”

  And there it was. Wham, a flashing light snapped on in her brain, shining nothing but brightness on an absolutely glorious idea.

  Better Bark.

  “Oh my God, that’s it. That’s it! That is an absolutely on-the-money freaking fantastic idea!” She pushed back from the bar, standing from the sheer power of the concept. He was right next to her in a second and, without thinking, she clamped both hands on his broad shoulders. “Oh, I could kiss you!”

  He smiled. “Now that is a good idea.”

  “Yes, yes, it is!” Still holding on to him, she squeezed, realizing the very genius of the idea had made her a little lightheaded. Or maybe it was the wine.

  Or maybe it was this man.

  Stupidly, she tightened her grip, looking up at him. “Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He let that gorgeous green-gold gaze drop down her face and settle on her mouth. “Sure you can,” he whispered. “That kiss you just mentioned, for example.”

  She opened her mouth to suck in a shocked breath, but he lowered his head like he was about to make good on the suggestion.

  “Just one,” he whispered, “really quick, but unforgettable, kiss.” A little closer. “It’s our newcomer’s special.”

  Chloe Somerset didn’t kiss strangers. She didn’t kiss filthy strangers with hard muscles a
nd soft whispers. She didn’t tilt her head, close her eyes, and…

  And then she did all that and more.

  His arms slipped around her, pulling her into his powerful, masculine chest. And his lips landed on hers, taking ownership of her openmouthed gasp with his soft, skilled lips. Everything spun, so of course she reached up to steady herself by holding on to…those shoulders.

  She forgot where she was. Forgot who she was. Forgot the idea, the bar, the world around her. Everything disappeared except the searing warmth of this stranger’s lips that made her stomach flip around like a helpless fish hanging on a hook. Her chest grew warm. Her legs grew weak. And, God help her, she opened her mouth and let their tongues touch so that she could taste beer and mint and something dangerous and thrilling.

  When it ended, she stayed right where she was, eyes closed, reeling.

  He let her go very slowly, as if he knew she was unsteady. As if he didn’t want to let go.

  What the hell was wrong with her? “We’re square now,” she said breathlessly. “And I have to go home and work.”

  “Where’s home? I’ll take you.”

  Not a chance. She’d never come out alive. “I can walk there.” She hoped. She managed to let go of him, peeling away, praying for steadiness but ready to blame the wine if she stumbled. “Thanks. And, bye…Dirty Shame.”

  He grinned at the name. “See ya around, Perfect Chloe.”

  But he wouldn’t. She didn’t know his last name. Or where he lived. Or what his deal was, except that he was a back-bar fixer and a damn good kisser. And she’d sucked up his inspiration and tongue like a woman who’d lost every shred of self-control.

  The one thing Chloe Somerset never gave up.

  She took off like a scared cat, still tasting him on her lips.

  Chapter Two

  Three days after one hot kiss and Shane still couldn’t shake that beautiful brunette out of his head.

  What the hell?

  It was eight a.m. during a training class, and he was surrounded by five new dogs and their five fairly clueless owners seeking guidance and help from him. But he was standing in the July morning sun wondering how to find Perfect Chloe. She’d never gone back into Billy’s bar—God knew he’d asked Billy enough times. A few unnecessary strolls past the Bitter Bark Bed & Breakfast offered no glimpse of her, but it felt way too stalkerish to ask Jane Gruen if someone named Chloe had checked in recently.

  And that left him cold. Or hot, as the case may be. He knew nothing else about this woman from Miami who seemed interested only in what made Bitter Bark special. Then walked away when he tried to show her.

  Maybe he’d lost his touch.

  He snapped his fingers as if to make sure they still worked, and a schnauzer named Garfield instantly dropped the chew toy he’d been playing with, trotted to Shane, and looked up as if he was a private in the army waiting for his drill sergeant’s next instruction.

  “How did you do that?” Garfield’s owner, an older woman with zero training skills, cried out in exasperation. “Are you wearing that special spray that makes dogs listen to you?”

  Sure hadn’t been wearing special spray the other night, or he wouldn’t have woken up alone and wondering about a stranger every morning since.

  “No pheromone juice, Mrs. Freeman. It’s all natural talent at Waterford.”

  “Well, you sure are good with dogs.”

  He didn’t argue. Dog whispering was his gift, one that had only been a handy hobby until three years ago, when his father convinced almost all of his kids to return to Bitter Bark and build a first-class canine training and rescue facility. Shane had walked away from practicing law and now worked as the head of civilian dog training at Waterford Farm, side by side with his father, two of his brothers, and two sisters.

  Would Perfect Chloe have given him a chance if she had smelled money and a law degree instead of dogs and sweat? No doubt. With her expensive clothes and shiny hair and perfectly made-up big brown eyes, she was a judgmental woman who cared only about appearances and made assumptions about people that were wrong.

  So if he’d been sitting on the other side of the bar in a two-thousand-dollar suit and a legal brief in front of him, would he have been able to get her out of those clothes and mess up that hair and see those big brown eyes spark with arousal?

  Probably. And that pissed him off even more. In fact, everything pissed him off, including the fact that he’d never get another chance with her.

  Mrs. Freeman got down to pet Garfield, but Shane’s attention was drawn to Rin Tin Tin, the battered yellow Jeep that they used to transport dogs to new homes or here from shelters. His younger brother Garrett was at the wheel, pulling onto the road that ran behind the kennels.

  Next to Garrett, his fiancée of one month, Jessie Curtis, sat with her tan and white Aussie shepherd, Lola, on her lap. But Shane’s gaze was drawn to the back, where an unfamiliar new arrival sat on haunches, looking around.

  He handed Mrs. Freeman some more treats. “Try again, but this time hold his eyes while you give Garfield the reward,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Looks like we have a new rescue I want to meet.”

  Even from a distance, he could see the distinct brown and white coloring and the familiar head shape of a Staffy. He didn’t have any memory of Garrett saying he was picking up a new dog, but then Garrett had been pretty damn distracted with Jessie these past few weeks. She’d moved to Bitter Bark, got an apartment in town, and Garrett was never around the house he and Shane shared near town.

  He ambled across the training area just as Garrett and Jessie climbed out. When Shane reached the Jeep, they opened the back door to let the dog out, but the new arrival didn’t move until Garrett gave permission.

  “Well trained,” Shane noted, seeing now that the dog was female with stunning two-toned coloring that divided her face into an almost perfect split of chocolate and vanilla. Of course, she’d have to go through life being called a pit bull by judgmental people who made assumptions based on appearances. Like Perfect Chloe.

  He shook the woman out of his brain and focused on the dog, who still hadn’t so much as barked. In a brand-new place with at least ten other dogs in sight? This one was an angel.

  “What’s her name?” Shane asked, immediately coming to his knees to greet the dog.

  “Daisy.”

  Shane smiled and eased his hand around her head, knowing exactly how to reach without any aggression, but a steady, kind hand. “Crazy, lazy Daisy,” he said softly, holding her dark gaze to establish a bond. “Rescue?”

  “Long-term boarder,” Garrett said. “Jessie and I went over to Greensboro last night to have dinner with Marie Boswell and celebrate our engagement, and we came home with Daisy.”

  “Sounds like dinner with Marie.” Shane laughed, thinking of their family friend who volunteered in shelters and frequently sent dogs to Waterford for the rescue program that Garrett ran. “How long term?”

  “Could be a month,” Garrett said. “Marie broke her foot, a fact she forgot to mention to me until we arrived. The woman has four dogs and can’t handle any of them until she’s out of a cast. She was able to find temporary homes for all the others, but she wanted to keep Daisy. Impossible, since this dog is incredibly active.”

  “Most Staffies are,” Shane said, curling a finger around the terrier’s ear. The misunderstood Staffordshire terrier, like its cousin the American bull terrier, had been Shane’s weakness ever since…Zeus. He swallowed hard at the memory of the dog, as he always did.

  No, it wasn’t fair that these dogs got saddled with a name and a bad rep. No one knew like Shane that it wasn’t the dogs that were monsters. The real animals were the people who didn’t know jack shit about them.

  “She’s never been in a kennel in her life,” Garrett said. “But I couldn’t let Marie struggle with her, and Daisy wasn’t happy with no playtime.”

  Shane made a face, knowing Daisy would have to be inside plenty at Waterford.

&nb
sp; “I can keep her at night,” Shane offered, already planning to take her for long walks and Frisbee tosses. But during the day, she’d have to stay in the kennels while other dogs were training. She’d hate that, and he knew it. Being penned up during the day would make her restless and anxious, and then, if she made one mistake…someone might say it was because of her breed and not her situation. Not anyone who worked at Waterford, but a guest.

  When he used both hands to rub the dog’s head, she instantly leaned forward to show her gratitude with a juicy lick on Shane’s cheek. A kisser, like all happy Staffordshire terriers.

  “Good girl, Daisy.” He reached into the treat bag hanging off his pants and slipped out a tiny biscuit. She gobbled it out of his hand and rewarded him with a direct, grateful gaze and a little pant of love.

  “I’m going to check her in and show her shot record to Molly,” Garrett said, referring to their sister, the Waterford vet. “Where are you going to be, Jess?”

  “Lola needs some exercise,” she said. “I’ll take her down to the creek and wait for you.”

  “Okay.” Garrett leaned forward to kiss Jessie on the lips. “See you in a bit.”

  “Oh, the smooching,” Shane whispered to Daisy as Jessie took off. “Don’t tell me they did that all the way from Greensboro.”

  “Shut up,” Garrett said, snapping a leash on Daisy’s collar. “You’re jealous.”

  “Not at all.” Shane stood to look his brother in the eyes. “As a matter of fact, I was kissing someone myself recently.”

  One kiss. But Garrett didn’t need to know that. Or the fact that “recently” was three days ago and he was still thinking about her.

  “Someone with two legs, not four?”

  “Screw you,” Shane joked. “The king of celibacy falls hard, and the rest of the world is on the receiving end of his teasing.”

  “Not teasing, Shane. You should try something more than meaningless sex sometime.” Garrett’s gaze shifted to the figure of Jessie, disappearing around the tree-lined path that led to Crescent Creek. “It’s life-changing.”