by Penny Reid
I wanted to see Roscoe, I longed to see him, but clearly he didn’t wish to see me. But, oh well. I had a job to do. Whether he wanted to see me or not was immaterial.
If he doesn’t want to see me, then I’ll be fine. I was fine before, I’ll be fine now. Eventually.
I reasoned, as I rounded the corner of the bakery, that I would just have to focus on the mission. Somehow, I’d ignore all these feelings and figure out a way to stem my nausea whenever I thought about helping Darrell Winston and convince Roscoe to donate his bone marrow to—
I stopped.
I stepped back.
I blinked.
My stomach dropped, as did my jaw.
I blinked again, unable to believe my eyes.
“What the hell?” I muttered, unable to move, because my sister was there—right there—standing off the parking lot not fifty feet away, just inside one of the flower-lined footpaths.
She didn’t see me, nah-ah.
Likely, she was out of her damn mind.
Because Dani was all wrapped up in, and kissing, Curtis Hickson.
* * *
On the road to Nashville, after picking up Pavlov—who was appropriately enough a Central Asian shepherd—I sent my sister a text.
Simone: I need to speak with you about a MOST URGENT MATTER.
She responded twenty minutes later, and I pulled to the side of the highway to read her message.
Dani: Are Mom and Dad okay?
Simone: Yes. We are all fine. The real question is: ARE YOU FINE?
Dani: Quit shouty capping me. I’m boarding a plane to London, will be hard to reach for a few days. If this isn’t an emergency, send me an email sis. *eye-roll emoji*
I gasped at the eye-roll emoji and quickly typed out a new message. A long one. Chock-full of emojis of an equivalent obnoxiousness as the eye-roll emoji. I expressed my outrage, reminding her of the damage she and Curtis had done to my family, reminding her that she was engaged to Billy Winston, and explaining to her that this loser had abducted me—her own sister—less than a month ago, just in case he forgot to mention it.
I also added quite a few WHAT ARE YOU THINKING with varying amounts and kinds of punctuation.
But as I typed, my brain caught up with my thumbs, and I stopped.
I closed my eyes. I opened them. I sighed. I turned off my phone and set it to the side. I glanced in my rearview mirror at Pavlov.
“What is she thinking, Pavlov?”
He panted, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.
I nodded. “That’s exactly right, Pavlov. She’s not thinking. Clearly, she’s not thinking at all. In lieu of using Google Maps or a Sherpa, my sister is feeling. That’s her problem.”
Pulling back into traffic, a two-ton weight on my chest, I flipped on the radio and determined to push her and her bad choices from my mind, muttering to myself, “That’s her problem, not my problem. She is a grown-ass woman, and I can’t make this my problem. I won’t. I won’t do it.”
I would concentrate on driving to Nashville.
Instead, unsurprisingly, I mentally ranted at imaginary versions of my adversaries for four hours.
I mentally fought with my sister about her terrible choices. I mentally fought with Roscoe about his penchant for avoiding me. I mentally fought with myself (i.e. my feelings) for still wanting anything to do with him.
By the time I pulled into the vet clinic where Roscoe worked, I was exhausted. I was tired of fighting. I just wanted everything to get back to normal. My research work was waiting for me in Washington, DC, my apartment, and last but not least, my Tuesday enchiladas with Nancy.
I didn’t belong with Roscoe any more than I belonged in the field as an undercover agent. Love wasn’t for me. The odds weren’t in anyone’s favor, least of all mine.
A plan formed, one devoid of feelings. A pragmatic plan, one where I’d walk Roscoe through all the reasons he should save his father’s life. I would swallow my bile and try to convince him, assuming he’d listen to me at all. I would do my job, but accept that ultimately it was up to him. I would then leave and I’d stop tracking him, I’d stop seeking him out.
I was officially letting go of Roscoe Winston.
After parking under a giant oak tree, I twisted in my seat and clipped the leash to Pavlov’s collar. Threading it around the headrest, I encouraged the big dog to climb into the front seat and exit out the driver’s side with me.
Once outside the car—as Cletus had predicted—Pavlov would need a good stretch and pee. He quickly accomplished both, and promptly pulled me toward the door of the vet office. I followed reluctantly, as though I were the one getting my annual shots and checkup instead of him.
Gathering a bracing breath, I opened the clinic door, prepared to encounter a receptionist, or a vet tech, or an admin, or someone other than Roscoe Winston covered in puppies.
I encountered Roscoe Winston covered in puppies.
Stopping dead in my tracks as the door swung shut behind me, a kind of well, of course he is despair cinched my heart, because the scene was—bar none—the most adorable thing I’d ever witnessed in my twenty-six years on this earth.
He was in faded greenish-blueish scrubs, his long form lying on the floor, allowing at least twelve happy, fluffy puppies to crawl all over him, wagging their fluffy tails, licking his face and forearms while he laughed and they yipped and growled playfully. His eyes were closed, but he reached for whichever one was the least wiggly and snuggled it to his chest, kissing it on the head, scratching its ears, and nuzzled it with his beard.
Oh for fuck’s sake!
I gritted my teeth, demanding my heart not explode with warm, gooey, shock waves of swoony hearts and flowers and stars.
. . . Too late.
It exploded.
I rocked back on my heels as the blast overtook me, closing my eyes at the impact of feeling and strangely biting back tears.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” someone asked, probably that receptionist, or vet tech, or admin for which I’d been prepared.
I shook my head, slowly at first, and then faster, because my chin wobbled.
Why? Why did I feel like crying? Why all these emotions? Why? Why? WHY?
More importantly, why did Roscoe have to be a vet? Why couldn’t he be a . . . a . . . a mortician? He wouldn’t look quite so stunningly and alluringly gorgeous covered in dead bodies, now would he?
I can’t do this.
Wordlessly, I turned and opened the door we’d just entered, shortening Pavlov’s leash in order to pull him through.
I’d made it completely out, and Pavlov was reluctantly following me, when I heard Roscoe say, “Simone?”
Sucking in a breath, a new shock wave seized me, urging me faster. I jogged to my car, fumbling with the leash and my keys, determined to slow time and space and leave before Roscoe unbridled himself from the puppy brigade.
Sadly, time and space were not under my control, and a hand caught my arm when I was only three steps from my car, spinning me around.
I turned, lifting my chin, because I was prepared for a fight. I mean, I’d spent one-third of my trip to Nashville arguing with an imaginary Roscoe. I was ready.
“Where did you get this dog?” he demanded, his eyebrows drawn together, his eyes unreadable chaos.
“I borrowed it,” I yelled so I wouldn’t burst into tears.
“You borrowed Pavlov?”
“Yes?” I answered, unsure why I sounded so unsure.
He looked thoroughly confused. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” I said without thinking, because it was true.
“Why?” Roscoe shifted closer; he’d said the single word as though he was out of breath.
“Because . . .” Kissing!
Don’t say that!!
“Because you’re avoiding me—” I held up a finger. “Don’t try to deny it.”
“I’m not going to deny it. I am avoiding you.”
“Why?�
��
Roscoe swallowed, and he seemed to do so with effort, his eyes darting over my face. As though suddenly deciding something, he slid a hand against my jaw, the other coming to my waist.
He pulled me close.
He kissed me.
Our lips met. Soft, hot, yielding, sudden, urgent, sweet. I moaned, or he did. Whatever. And apparently Roscoe did control space and time, and sound, because everything stopped and faded. There was only him and his lips moving against mine.
I became aware that he’d backed me against my car because he was leaning against me, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip just before he gave it a sensual lick, slipping his tongue into my mouth and stealing my breath.
Stars, flowers, hearts, puppies, fireworks, Roscoe. I was drunk, liquid heat in his arms, his embrace, his strong hands reforming me, twisting my insides until I was sure I would dissolve, an amorphous puddle of feeling.
He pulled away—maybe hours, maybe minutes later—breathing hard as his lips came to my neck, kissing me there, his beard tickling me.
I gasped for breath, my mind a fog, trembling in his arms.
That’s right, I freaking trembled. My body felt like the physical manifestation of aroused and pining Jell-O. Wrap your mind around that! Because I certainly couldn’t.
“I missed you,” he said, his arms now tighter. “God, I missed you so fucking much.”
Blinking against a stinging behind my eyelids—the good kind this time—I snuggled against his chest, felt the heavy and fast beating of his heart against my cheek, and smelled him. He smelled like Roscoe. And dog. And antiseptic.
I didn’t care.
Unthinkingly, forgetting all the reasons I was furious with this man, I admitted, “I missed you, too.”
He huffed a laugh and it sounded relieved.
“Don’t leave,” he said, kissing my forehead and then my cheek with more fervent urgency. “Don’t go.”
I shook my head, ready to say, I won’t.
But he spoke again, “Let me take you out. Tonight. I know a place, a great restaurant. Stay and let’s- let’s do this- let’s go- let me—”
“Yes.” I lifted my chin and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, leaning away just in time to see his mouth part with surprise and his eyes widen with hope.
“Yes?”
I nodded. Another wave of emotion, several I couldn’t name because they felt so foreign and new, crashed over me. “Yes.”
Happiness that seemed too immense for him to contain brightened his eyes. I couldn’t stop my grin.
And Roscoe? Roscoe kissed me again. Again and again, kisses that were 100 percent inappropriate for a veterinary parking lot. It was wonderful. His ravenous mouth and covetous hands gave me the time necessary to place and name these emotions that had seized me, so foreign and new.
Elation.
Euphoria.
Ecstasy.
The three Es.
Forget Google Maps and Sherpas.
Feelings for the win!
I was so screwed, and I couldn’t care less.
Chapter Eighteen
“I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
*Roscoe*
Roscoe: Pavlov is spending some time in the puppy yard this evening.
Cletus: How long?
Roscoe: I don’t know yet. A few hours.
Cletus: Overnight?
Roscoe: I don’t know.
Setting my cell on the sink counter, I returned my attention to the collar of my shirt. Catching sight of my image in the mirror, I frowned, wondering for the tenth time if this was what I wanted to wear for my first date with Simone.
Picking out clothes was a problem for me. Since I remembered what I wore on each occasion, I didn’t want the clothes to define the event by being the wrong choice—too casual or too fancy, an out-of-date style or color, a previously unseen tear or hole—which was why I was careful about the clothes I bought and my appearance whenever I was in public.
My phone rang, yanking my thoughts away from worries about my light blue shirt and to the screen of my cell.
It was Cletus.
Since he wasn’t here to see, I rolled my eyes as I answered. “Hello?”
There was a pause, then a deep breath. “You better not’ve just rolled your eyes at me.”
“What?”
“Roscoe.”
“I didn’t.” I lied, laughing. Man, I loved that he’d never know whether I was telling the truth.
Cletus grunted. “Eye-roll notwithstanding, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You text your auspicious older brother to inform him that you’ve abandoned his pride and joy to a cage, and you can’t even tell said brother how long said pride and joy canine will be there. For shame.”
I rolled my eyes again. “It’s not a cage. It’s the puppy yard. He has plenty of space and you know he likes playing with the puppies. Hell, whenever you bring him down, you leave him in the puppy yard for as long as possible.”
“That’s not the point. You don’t just drop a person’s beloved animal off for an unknown stretch of time and follow up with a text message. How long will he be there?”
The sound of my apartment’s front door opening and closing made my heart jump. I switched the cell from my right hand to my left as I left the bathroom.
When I’d first spotted Simone this afternoon, the first memory that had come to mind had been of us dancing at Genie’s, of holding her close, and how her eyes had shone with hurt. I didn’t want to hurt her, I never wanted to do that. So, unlike my foolish non-action that night, this time I’d chased her out the door.
Maybe the best decision I’ve ever made.
“I told you, I don’t know.” Poking my head out of my bedroom, I caught Simone’s eye as she set a shopping bag on the kitchen counter.
My breath caught because she gave me an easy smile, and because she was here and real and gorgeous. Seeing her in the parking lot earlier, and now, after missing her desperately over the last three weeks, I knew it was now or never. I had to try. I had to give this thing between us everything I had. If I didn’t, I’d live in a constant limbo of regret and wondering what could have been.
Tonight or never.
I was all in.
“You’re telling me you have no idea?” Cletus released a frustrated huff. “Days? Weeks? Can I expect to see Pavlov again before I die?”
I glanced at the ceiling, shaking my head. “You’re being ridiculous and you know it.”
Movement in my field of vision snagged my attention. Simone was moving closer, a question behind her mesmerizing eyes. Have I mentioned how beautiful her eyes were? Because they were. They were so very her. Bright and engaging, belying her devastating intelligence and wit. I loved her eyes.
“You look great,” she mouthed. Lifting her chin toward my phone, she whispered, “Who is that?”
“It’s Cletus,” I said, not bothering to whisper in return. “He’s got his panties in a bunch about Pavlov.”
“Who’s there?” Cletus sounded like he was on high alert. “Is that Simone? Is Simone there? Put her on the phone.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I grumbled. “We’re getting ready to go out.”
“Put the lady on the phone,” he demanded.
“I’ll talk to him.” Simone held out her hand, pressing a quick kiss to my lips when I passed her the phone. “All I need is ten minutes and I’ll be ready. Go finish up,” she whispered soothingly, indicating with her chin toward my room as she brought the cell to her ear. “Heya Cletus.”
She stepped back and shuffled unhurriedly to the kitchen counter, leaning a hand against it as my eyes moved over the shape of her. Simone was in jeans and an artfully faded button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up her forearms, sneakers on her feet, a few bracelets on her wrist. I glanced at my slate gray pants and blue suit shirt, deciding I was overdressed.
“Uh-huh,
” she said, nodding, clearly listening to Cletus’s nonsense with admirable patience. She dug inside the bag she’d placed on the counter and nodded at something he’d said. “Right.”
“I’m going to go change,” I whispered. Her eyes cut to mine and I tossed my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll put on something more casual.” I didn’t know what I’d been thinking, getting all gussied up.
She frowned, shaking her head and covering the receiver with her fingers. “No. Wear that. I love that color on you.”
Hesitating, I glanced at my clothes again, taking in the shine of my shoes. I was definitely overdressed.
After she’d shown up this afternoon and I’d kissed her like I’d been dreaming about for weeks—and years—I’d brought both Simone and Pavlov back into the waiting room. Introductions were made, and I’d done my best to ignore the knowing smiles sent my way by our receptionist, the two veterinary technicians, and my colleague, Dr. Yi, who’d come out of the charting area to see what all the fuss was about.
Once Pavlov’s checkup had been complete and he was safely—and happily—tucked away in the puppy yard, Simone had followed me to my apartment in her car. But as soon as we arrived, she told me to go inside and get ready, that she needed to run a few errands first.
I might’ve grown uneasy at this point, except she’d also asked for a key to my apartment, which I’d handed over. She then tugged on the front of my scrubs, pulling me down to her window for more kisses, and I’d enthusiastically obliged. When I straightened, she handed me a Donner Bakery box, told me it was a cake for later.
Her gaze seemed a little hazy, extremely happy, her eyes on mine with a promise to return.
So I didn’t grow uneasy. I trusted that she’d return, especially since she’d left the Donner Bakery cake behind.
I’d showered, trimmed my beard and shaved my neck, applied aftershave and cologne, and dressed.
