WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “People in Miami don’t think nice things about me,” he continued, drawing me back to the conversation. Believe me, I know, I almost said. Jasmine had left a few articles for me on my desk about the Miami Devils. Even recently, they’d had plenty of bad press.

  I dug into my purse, scooped out a handful of Sour Patch Kids.

  “Well, people in Miami think I’m a hypocritical fake so you’re in the right company,” I said brightly, feeling a strange urge to comfort this man. “One troll on Instagram called me a sheep fucker.”

  Beck looked furious before he caught my light expression. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What does fucking sheep have to do with anything?”

  “Who knows?” I laughed. Touched his shoulder again. “Want one of these?”

  His brow wrinkled. “What is this?”

  “Sour candy.” I popped one between my teeth, tilted my head. “Go on. Take it.”

  “Thank you,” he finally said, taking an orange one.

  I let out a sigh. “I have to go to my board meeting unfortunately. I’ll see you on Tuesday?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Thanks for coming back to say hi,” I said. “I needed a friendly face.”

  “Most people don’t consider this face friendly,” he said. “Usually strikes fear in the hearts of children and the elderly.”

  “Ah,” I said with a grin, “good thing I’m not children or the elderly, Mr. Mason.”

  13

  Beck

  “Happy one-year anniversary of getting out,” I said to Wes, clapping him on the shoulder. He was sitting at the computer, sorting what little mail we received. His fingers tapped along to a Black Flag song he was playing from his phone.

  “Aw, thanks, boss,” he said. “I thought I wouldn’t really remember the date. But I did.”

  “It’s hard to forget,” I said. “I still remember mine.”

  Wes eyed Jem, who was marching towards us with a plate in her hands.

  “How do you feel?” I asked. It’d been only ten months since he’d started working here. I’d seen a startling change in him.

  “Happy,” he said, bashful. “I love the dogs. I love my job. I need to stay busy, Beck.”

  He gave me an honest look.

  “I get it,” I said. “I’ll keep you busy.”

  “Thank you.” He rapped his knuckles again. “Am I doing okay here?”

  “You’re doing great. Everyone loves you.”

  “Yeah?” Wes asked. “I like having, you know… a family.”

  Jem burst through the door and Wes’s entire attention landed on her. I hid a smile, glad to see the two of them developing a friendship or a relationship or whatever was happening. Routine and community were the things that had kept me away from the MC after I got out.

  Lucky Dog was my family now. Which was even more clear to me after seeing those three Devils members on the beach outside Luna’s office. In twenty years, I’d only seen them three times—always briefly. I didn’t recognize the guy who’d waved at me. They weren’t dumb—we were surrounded by security on that beach. But I’d felt an unspoken message: we’re watching you.

  I’d shaken it off. Or tried to. This was always the game with them. My parents were expert emotional manipulators, as a court social worker had said once. But last night I’d woken from a nightmare with fractured images. Bars. Tight spaces. Not enough room to breathe.

  “What’s that?” I asked Jem, dismissing the memory.

  “Vegan cookies,” she said. She handed one to Wes. “Happy one-year anniversary of getting out.”

  Wes actually blushed. “Aw, man. Thanks, Jem.”

  “Any time.” She bit into a cookie. Grinned. “I technically made these for Luna and I’m nervous as fuck. Just like you are, Beck.”

  “I’m not nervous,” I scowled. It was Tuesday, Luna’s first volunteer day.

  Luna suddenly shoved the trailer door open and I jumped so hard everyone around me startled with my spontaneous motion—I accidentally knocked over two empty coffee mugs as Wes threw a stack of mail in the air.

  “Good afternoon, new coworkers,” Luna said, twirling around as she strode toward the front desk.

  “Um… hello,” I grumbled, kicking the mugs out of the way and scooping up the envelopes. Why was my heart beating this fast?

  Luna was wearing a tank top and colorful yoga pants, hair in a high bun. Normal, I guess. But her running shoes looked more expensive than my motorcycle.

  “Are these cookies?” she asked Jem.

  “I baked them for you,” Jem said. She slapped a hand over her face. “Goddammit, that sounded stalker-ish.”

  “No way, girl,” Luna said, waving a hand. “We’re coworkers now. You don’t have to feel weird. Also I love cookies. How did you know?”

  Jem shrugged, bit her lip. Luna stuffed two cookies into her mouth and gave Jem a double thumbs-up.

  “If these cookies were a woman, I’d marry them,” Wes said. Luna laughed and Jem looked absurdly pleased with herself.

  I made a mental note that Wes needed a few dating tips from Elián and me.

  Not that I had much advice to share.

  Luna finally spun on her heels and saw me.

  “Hey there,” she said.

  “How many camera crews do you have with you today?” I asked.

  “Only my usual ten,” she said. “On a scale of one to grumpy, what are you today?”

  “At least a five,” Jem interjected.

  “Don’t you have kennels to clean?” I said. But I took one of her cookies and bit into it. “These are delicious.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Jem swept out the door, taking Wes with her.

  “So a five, huh, boss?” Luna asked, dark eyes twinkling.

  “Don’t call me boss,” I said.

  14

  Beck

  “How have things been?” I asked, walking Luna into our large training field. That morning I’d read an article about her in The Miami Herald. It was an opinion article, written by another local businessman. It had not been nice.

  “Not great,” she said. “Which I didn’t really expect. I thought a fast and open apology would take the worst of it. But Wild Heart stock crashed again today. Remember those comments I told you I’d made back in my twenties?”

  “The ones about non-vegans?”

  “The very same,” she continued. “They’re being dredged up and used against me. I had really hoped everything would be, I don’t know, dissolved after a day. But that was probably extremely naïve of me.”

  I looked over at her, saw her shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Luna.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “Besides, I feel better already, being here.”

  “Here?” I asked.

  “It feels really happy at Lucky Dog. Don’t you think?”

  I looked around—saw all of our fucked-up shit. It was hard to see it any other way. This place was being held together with duct tape.

  “You think showing people what you’re doing here will get us more money?”

  “And improve my reputation,” she said, crossing her fingers. “I mean, I hope.”

  Luna was staring out at our giant space. I thought about the fury of the protesters, the nasty comments about her online. If I was in her situation, how far would I go to get my perfect reputation back?

  “Luna,” I said.

  “Yes?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Don’t…” I stubbed at the ground with my boot. “Don’t market us for pity. I’m serious. I know we talked about this when you were first here but…”

  Luna took a step back at my change in tone. “What?”

  “I want the money to come from a place of… I don’t know. Hope. Not fear or just because people feel bad for us.”

  “I get it. And I promise,” she said. “But, Beck, you’re the one who’s afraid to get on camera. Don’t you think people would respond to the passion of the founder?”

  “I’m not ch
anging my mind on that,” I said, arms crossed. “I’m not your prop.”

  Her nostrils flared. “That’s still what you think? That I’m going to use you?”

  “Of course.”

  She mirrored my pose. “Do I really give off the impression that I’m so shallow now?”

  “I think people in desperate situations do things they wouldn’t normally do,” I said.

  “You really are a five today, aren’t you?”

  I almost smiled. Switched to glowering at the last minute. But she smiled too.

  “Okay, okay,” she conceded. “You still don’t fully trust me. Let’s keep going with the tour.”

  She started to walk away.

  “You’re not… I mean, you’re not mad?”

  “Mad?” she said. “No. I don’t really get mad. A little frustrated, maybe. I’m the CEO of a company valued at over one billion dollars that I built from the ground up. You think I don’t spar with people all damn day? We’re merely at an impasse.”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback. Huh.

  “Let’s try this,” she said. “If you had all the money in the world at your disposal, what would you do for Lucky Dog?”

  “Expand it and double the number of dogs we could treat, from fifteen to thirty. Then triple it. Then open a second location.”

  Luna thought about that for a second. “I like it. Sounds reasonable. Forward motion without expanding so quickly you can’t sustain it. You’ve got smart vision, Mr. Mason.”

  “I do?” I didn’t. At least, I didn’t think I did.

  She tapped her lip. “Can I take a picture of this little cutie over here?” It was Beatrix, looking extra snarly and vicious in her cage.

  “I doubt she’ll be a nice model.”

  But she was already strolling over, cooing to Beatrix in low tones. The dog didn’t come over to her—still too scared for that—but she did open up her mouth for a fully canine grin.

  Click went Luna’s phone and her thumbs flew over the screen.

  “What about this? Do you approve?”

  I took the phone, my fingers brushing hers. It was a picture on her Instagram feed with the twelve million followers or whatever. In her profile picture, she wore a crown of white daisies, dark hair flowing, lips red. Next to it: Vegan. CEO/Founder of Wild Heart. Animal lover and nature nerd. All links to Wild Heart’s products in bio.

  “All of these people want to look at your pictures?”

  “They sure do.” She tapped the one in question. It was the picture of Beatrix but she didn’t look like she was in a cage—she looked like a regular dog.

  Most importantly, she looked like an adoptable dog.

  Beneath it, Luna had captioned: For the next month I’ll be volunteering with local Miami charity Lucky Dog which rescues and rehabilitates dogs like this good girl Beatrix! The great news is that I’m bringing my followers along with me! And if you want to help dogs like Beatrix, click the link in my bio to donate. More money = help more dogs.

  “I had our accountant link a donation page from my site to Lucky Dog,” she explained.

  I stared at her.

  “What?” she asked. “You thought I wasn’t serious about any of this?”

  “Maybe… kinda?”

  She looked hurt. “Well, contrary to current opinion, I really do care, Beck.”

  “Okay,” I said. Because we’d sparred enough today and I was starting to feel bad about it. “I believe you. If your posts are like that, I… think that’s fine.”

  “Some would even say I’m kind of… .an expert on… branding… and… marketing…” Luna tapped her chin, pretending to look around her.

  “Okay, fuck, I get it. You’re a genius. Now can I give you this fucking tour?”

  Luna touched my arm. “I’d love that.”

  15

  Luna

  Beck Mason still believed I was going to churn him up and spit him out, all in the name of improving my reputation.

  Since the news broke, I’d basically become target practice for any stranger online who could figure out how to leave a comment on Instagram. Besides the usual trolls, I was quickly becoming a living example of the ways in which corporations lie to consumers; the ways in which vegans suck; the ways in which leaders manipulate their followers and on and on and on.

  So Beck pushing back on my stipulations didn’t actually bother me—that was merely business details to hash out. That was my daily life—I was used to that.

  But the judgment on his face? That hurt more than everything else this week combined.

  “You’re going to dial it back, right?” I asked—lightly, but with enough steel in my voice that he actually looked sorry. “Because five is a bit much right now after the day I had. Maybe a three?”

  Beck nodded. “Do you want to go see Penelope?”

  “Please,” I grinned. “Pretty please.”

  “And I’ll aim for, uh… zero, actually, if that’s okay with you?”

  “I mean, if you’re a zero on the grumpiness scale, where’s the fun?”

  Beck actually chuckled. “Come on,” he said.

  I followed him through the training field, back toward kennel #7. “Also, I’m sure you’re busy, right? Could Elián give me this tour?”

  “Oh, it’s no… I mean, I wanted to. It’s no problem,” he said.

  “Well then, sock it to me, boss,” I said.

  “This field is where the dogs we’re working with go through obedience and trust training—getting them used to humans and other dogs. This ring of kennels is where they live. And as they graduate to different levels of training, they eventually work toward this.” Beck slapped a shoddy-looking building. “It’s a replica of a real house. The dogs we work with, they’re afraid of anything new—stairs, couches, being inside—and they’re not house trained. Abused dogs, stray dogs, it’s important that they feel safe before being adopted out. Gives them the best chance for recovery.”

  I peeked inside, smiling at the realistic-looking living room they’d created. There was even a fireplace with a cozy rug in front of it. “I love it. What are Jem and Elián trained in?”

  “They’re animal behavioral specialists. That’s how I met Elián. I got a job as a janitor at Miami’s SPCA. He was working there.”

  “He’s your friend?” I asked.

  “Best friend,” he said. “And co-founder, but he doesn’t like me calling him that.”

  “He gave you the glory,” I said.

  Beck looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure why. I’m a high school dropout who can barely string two words together.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re the right person to lead,” I said.

  “Maybe.” His eyes widened before he looked away from me. Interesting.

  Beck was the right leader for Lucky Dog. Sincere, clearly educated on what these dogs needed, and able to set them up for success. But he didn’t see himself that way.

  “Let’s agree to disagree on that. Because I see a leader sitting in front of me,” I said. Beck, however, didn’t respond.

  “So… how long do they stay here?” I asked, redirecting.

  “Give or take thirteen weeks. We spend that time exposing them to humans they can trust. Love, maybe.”

  “And they can stay even if it takes longer?”

  “Until they find their home, yes.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “That makes me very happy,” I said. Beck gave me a tentative smile.

  We’d reached Penelope’s kennel. She was curled in the corner but not asleep. Scared, on high alert.

  “Oh, Beck,” I said softly. He reached out, as if to touch me, but then pulled his hand back.

  “She’ll be okay,” he promised. “We’re going to work with her today.” He led us inside and we both sat gingerly, without making a sound. He scattered food all around us in a circle.

  “The more she associates humans with food, the better. Food equals safety; safety equals trust.”

  I wra
pped my arms around my knees, again aware of the mud staining these brand-new, stupidly expensive yoga pants. It was a brand I followed obsessively—their founder was young and hip and almost unbearably trendy. When they’d reached out for sponsorship, I’d said yes enthusiastically, was willing to shill for their brand if they did the same for Wild Heart, obviously.

  But as I sat in the hot sun with Beck, it was interesting to note how easily yoga-gear-branding opportunities dominated my attention more than my former passions about animals or the environment.

  “How long do you usually sit here with each dog?” I asked.

  “As long as it takes,” Beck said. “This is the tough part. It’s one step forward, two steps back for what feels like forever.” He was cradling a brush in his lap. I tapped it with my finger.

  “We’re going to brush her hair?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “It’s a way for dogs to bond with their humans. Sometimes. A lot of abused dogs are also smacked with brushes so I’m not sure how she’ll respond.”

  That old, familiar fire surfaced in my heart—the same one that had directed me to found Wild Heart. “Do you believe Penelope was abused?”

  He grimaced. “I’m not sure. It’s a possibility. She could be a stray because she ran from an abusive owner.”

  I exhaled sharply through my nose.

  Beck heard it. Gave me a look of concern. “Lucky you and I were there to rescue her, huh?”

  I held his gaze for a moment, throat tight. “Very lucky indeed.” I stretched my feet out, leaning back. Dug into my purse for my ever-present glass bottle of kombucha. I’d managed to limit my intake of corn chips and sour gummy candy to a mere handful of each this week. “Want some while we’re sitting here?”

  “What is it?”

  “Kombucha. I brought an extra cup for you.”

  “You brought this for… me?” he asked.