by Tawna Fenske
I stop again, boots glued to the slate floor. I should keep moving, but—
“Yes!” My sister claps her hands. “Please say it’s my brother?”
My throat closes up, and I can’t breathe. I grip the corner of the wall beside the stairwell, knowing I should make a run for it, but somehow my feet don’t move.
“I plead the fifth.” Chelsea’s voice is coy and teasing and—getting closer?
Footsteps knock the slate floor, and I jump back into the alcove between the ladies’ room and the stairwell.
But I’m not quick enough.
“Mark?” Chelsea stares at me. All the color drains from her face, and she brings both hands to her mouth as her eyes go wide as silver dollars. “Please tell me you didn’t just hear that.”
Chapter 5
CHELSEA
Please tell me you didn’t just hear that.
My own stupid words echo back at me down the slate-tiled hallway, bouncing off the golden wood paneling and hitting me right in the face. Mark’s expression is unreadable, but there’s no way he didn’t hear. I rewind the tapes in my brain, assessing the damage.
Can you just do me doggie style or something?
I close my eyes, willing this not to be real. What if he heard the rest—the part Bree said about her brother?
Dear Lord, this isn’t happening.
I’m so focused on begging the floor to open up and swallow me that I’m startled when Mark clears his throat.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” His voice is a low rumble, and I open my eyes to see him watching me. “About visiting the Humane Society to get a dog. Maybe this weekend.”
Dog? Is this a doggie style joke?
But no, there’s no hint of teasing in his eyes. Not even a smile. He’s dead freakin’ serious, and I can’t tell if he really didn’t hear what I said or if he’s throwing me a rope.
I swallow hard, seizing the chance to pretend I said nothing filthy at all. Nope, just a casual chat with the girls about dogs and volunteer work and—
“What kind of dog are you wanting?” My voice comes out too loud, and I decide I shouldn’t have had that second glass of champagne.
“Not sure.”
I wait a few beats to see if he’ll offer more, but I’m not disappointed he doesn’t. If I learned anything about Mark in last night’s marathon phone call, it’s that he doesn’t waste words. I never thought I’d admire that in a guy, but I do. Fewer words means less chance of bullshit, and I’ve had enough bullshit to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.
“Okay, let’s see.” I try to recall some of the questions they ask prospective pet adopters at the Humane Society. “Are you set on a big dog or a small one?”
“Size doesn’t matter.”
I will not look at his hands. I will not look at his hands.
Oh, Jesus, I looked at his hands. And yes, they’re massive. Of course they are.
Color floods my face as I struggle to keep my eyes on his face and recall more dog-related questions. “What’s your activity level?” I lean against the wood-paneled hall and wonder if he can tell I’m a bit unsteady on my feet. “Like are you looking for a dog you can hike with, or more of a lap dog?”
He considers that for a while, then nods. “Both, I think. I like being outside, but it’s also nice to stay in.”
How did I never notice how much these pet screening questions sound like the sort of things you’d ask on a first date? But hell, I may as well go with it.
“How patient are you when it comes to things like training and housebreaking and—"
—and women who are way out of practice at flirting?
“Patient.” There’s no hesitation in his response.
“You’re sure? Some dogs require a lot of work.”
He nods and rubs a hand over his beard. “First summer I visited my dad here, I fished the pond seven hours a day for a week before I caught anything.”
“Okay, that’s patient.”
I file this information in the back of my brain, not sure what to do with it. I’m digging this opportunity to pepper him with personal questions, but I know I should stay focused on dog stuff.
“How about kids?” I ask. “Not that you have children now, but dogs are a long-term commitment. If you think you want kids in the next ten years or so, you don’t want a biter or a dog that can’t be around children.”
That gets the tiniest smile out of him, and I’m sure he knows I’m fishing. God, could I be any more awkward?
“Even without kids, I’m not sure I want a biting dog,” he says slowly.
“Good point. Okay, um—” I do a mental scan of the questionnaire, eager to keep putting conversational distance between Mark and what he may or may not have overheard at girls’ night. “Are you looking for a puppy, or maybe a more mature dog that’s had a home before?”
This question is key. Everyone loves a puppy, but it takes someone special to accept the baggage that can come with an older animal.
Or a single mom.
I urge my subconscious to shut up and wait for Mark’s response.
“Used dog,” he says.
“Used dog?” I catch myself smiling. “I’ve never heard that term, but I like it.”
He shrugs and leans against the wall, bringing him infinitesimally closer to me. “Sorta like getting used jeans or books,” he says. I’m struck by the rich brown of his eyes and the thought that a gazillionaire would buy any of those things used. “It’s better when they’re already broken in a little. When someone’s flagged the good parts.”
This is either the sweetest or most fucked up conversation I’ve ever had about late-in-life relationships. But we’re not talking about relationships, we’re talking about dogs. At least Mark is.
“That makes sense,” I tell him. “Puppies are great, but they chew furniture and pee on the floor and have trouble sleeping through the night.”
“How’d you sleep?”
“What?”
He smiles, and my insides turn to gooey caramel. “Last night. I kept you up late on the phone. Did you get to sleep okay?”
I nod like an idiot, charmed that he thinks he was the one who kept me up. Maybe I’m not the only one making more of this canine Q and A. “I slept great, thanks. You?”
“Like a baby.”
“Or a used dog?”
The smile gets wider, his lips surprisingly full beneath that ruddy beard. “Exactly.” He clears his throat. “Okay, what else?”
“Sorry?”
“What else should I think about when I pick a dog?”
I tuck some loose hair behind my ear, almost forgetting why I walked out here in the first place. I still have to pee, but I don’t want to stop talking with Mark. I could stand here all night if my bladder let me.
“Breed,” I say, remembering something else from the Humane Society forms. “Are you picky about getting a purebred or are you unconcerned with your dog’s genes?”
Something flickers in his eyes. It’s gone so fast I think I might have imagined it, and Mark takes his time answering.
“How much do you think genes matter?” he asks.
This feels like a test, but I have no idea what kind. My brain scrambles for an answer. Has he heard rumors about my daughter’s father, or am I reading too much into this?
“It depends,” I say carefully, not sure whether to answer from a canine standpoint or a human one. Maybe it’s the same. “I guess sometimes there are medical reasons to care about genetics.”
“Mpf,” he says, and I have no idea if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“But a purebred German Shepherd might have hip dysplasia bred into them,” I continue. “And yeah, mutts can be unpredictable, but I saw this special once about how mixed breeds tend to have higher IQs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes.” I swallow hard, aware that the spinning in my head has nothing to do with champagne. His eyes are big, liquid pools of chocolate, and
I feel myself leaning in. “So maybe the unknown is okay. Maybe that makes it better.”
Mark stares at me for a long time. So long I wonder if he’s going to say anything at all. I’m drowning in his eyes, in the fullness of his mouth, and I can’t blame the champagne. I’m as clear-headed as I’ve ever been, and I want this man so much my chest aches.
“Damn.” He breathes the word like a prayer, sending a shiver up my arms.
I lick my lips, not sure how to reply.
That’s all it takes.
He reaches for me at the same time I step forward, and we crash together right there in the hall. I’m arching on tippy-toes, and he leans in to meet me, and our mouths find each other in a single breathless instant.
I don’t understand it, but I don’t need to. I don’t care how a conversation about dogs can turn into this frenzy of heat and hunger. His mouth is achingly soft, surrounded by oceans of softness. I’ve never kissed a guy with a full beard, and all my senses flood with sensation. I’m spiraling into tickly softness, into a springy, silken cushion. I close my eyes, but open them again, needing to record this moment in my memory. What it feels like to lose myself in clouds of soft-spun energy.
He holds me against him, against a rock-solid wall of muscle that’s such a contrast to the softness I gasp. He doesn’t pull back, not like most guys who’d jerk away and inspect me for damage. It’s obvious from the way I’m burrowing against him that I don’t want him to stop. I’m practically climbing him like a tree, like a huge, burly, sexy tree.
His hand is rough in the curve of my waist, claiming me. There’s a hunger in his kiss that stirs something deep inside me, something primal. He’s not tentative, not timid, and I wonder again if he heard the conversation or that’s just how Mark is.
That’s just how Mark is I decide as he gives a low growl and deepens the kiss. I whimper and press into him, grinding hard against the front of his jeans. Some carnal creature has stirred awake inside me, standing up to stretch and growl and purr with pleasure. I drag my hands down his arms to claim those thick mounds of muscle. My fingers are greedy, devouring deltoids and triceps and a zillion muscles I never knew existed, much less in such grand scale. Good Lord, Mark Bracelyn is huge. And he kisses like a god. How have I lived this long without feeling such—
“Chelsea—oh, shit.”
I jump back and whirl to face whoever’s behind me.
Standing in the doorway of the Fireside Room is Bree, her expression a weird mix of fretful delight.
Mark curses behind me, but Bree moves forward.
“Whatever’s going on here, I approve,” she says. “And I hate to interrupt, but your phone’s been ringing like crazy, and we were worried it might be your sitter.”
Sitter. Libby.
I lick my lips and wonder if I’m the worst mother in the world.
“My purse—”
“Right here.” Bree holds out my leather tote as my ringtone blares from inside. I fumble my phone from the inside pocket, hands shaking like I’ve just jumped on stage. Is that Mark’s doing, or is it the sight of my babysitter’s name on the screen?
I hit the button to answer the call. “Jody, hi, what’s wrong?”
My heart thuds in my ears as I wait for her answer. Please, God, please let my baby be okay.
“Libby’s fine,” Jody says quickly. “We’re both fine. But something’s wrong with your car.”
“My car?”
I glance toward the parking lot, which is silly. I took an Uber here tonight, wanting to be responsible. And Jody has her own car, so why is she—
“It’s parked in the driveway where you left it,” she continues. “But I heard this loud crash. Libby’s fine, I checked,” she says again, knowing I need reassurance. “But I looked outside and—”
Libby’s fine. Libby’s fine.
My brain is so busy chanting those words that I almost don’t hear the next ones.
“—your car is kind of a mess.”
I swallow hard, feeling Bree and Mark’s eyes on me. I clutch the phone tighter, trying to understand what’s happening. “Someone hit my car?”
“No, that’s not it.” Jody hesitates. “I don’t think this was an accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your window’s smashed, and I think some of your tires are flat.” She hesitates, like she doesn’t want to say the words. “I think someone trashed your car on purpose.”
“But—how—why—”
“I called you first,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if I should call the cops or—”
“Call the police,” I tell her. “I’ll be right there. Thank you for calling, Jody.”
If I thought my hands were shaking before, they’re doing double-time now. It takes me three tries to get the phone back into my purse, at which point I yank it right back out again because now I need an Uber.
“What’s wrong?” Bree asks. “Did something happen to Libby?”
Mark steps around me, forehead etched with concern. “How can I help?”
My heart is pounding in my head, but it does a little surge at Mark’s words. There’s nothing like male protector instinct, and it means more coming from this giant of a man. This giant of a man who kisses like a dream and whose hands were just—
“I need an Uber,” I tell them as I toggle to the app. “Someone vandalized my car, but Jody and Libby are fine. I just need to get home right away before—”
“I’ll drive.” Mark grabs the phone from my hand, and I’m too stunned to resist.
“But—”
“You’re not going home alone.” He slips the phone back into my purse with hands way steadier than mine.
“I won’t be alone, I’ll have an Uber driver,” I protest feebly. Truth is, I’ll feel a whole lot better if Mark’s with me. “And Jody’s there with—”
“No.” Mark shakes his head, and there’s so much steel in his eyes that I clamp my mouth shut. “First someone fucks with the door at your shop, then someone rings your doorbell late at night. Now this?”
I clamp my mouth shut. Dear Lord, is he right? Could those things possibly be connected?
Bree’s staring at me with concern. “Is that true, Chelss? Is someone messing with you?”
“I can’t imagine those things would be linked.” My words sound weak, like I don’t believe them myself.
I look up at Mark, strong and capable and so damn sexy I lose my breath.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Thank you. Take me home, please.”
He nods and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 6
MARK
It’s past nine when I pull into Chelsea’s neighborhood, and my heart is just now slowing down. I tell myself it’s the scare of knowing someone fucked with her car, but I know damn well that’s not it.
Jesus, Christ, that kiss.
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to mess with you?” I force myself to stick with the subject at hand.
“No.” Her voice is soft, and I glance over to see she’s biting her lip. There’s fear in her eyes, but I don’t know whether to blame the dickhead who trashed her car or something else. What isn’t she telling me?
“Right here,” she says, and I ease up to the curb in front of a small brown house with gray trim. Two massive pots of yellow flowers flank a brick-red door with a glass panel running alongside. It’s probably pretty, but right now, it looks more like a safety hazard. Hell.
I scan the whole front yard, noticing thick, flowery bushes that anyone could hide behind, and a driveway that’s only dimly lit by one small bulb. Bad guys could be lurking anywhere.
She reaches for the door handle, but I catch her hand in mine. “Wait.” I glance down at my phone. “Austin will be here in two minutes.”
“Austin? You called the police chief?”
“Bree called her fiancé.” Who happens to be the police chief, so yeah. “Humor me,” I tell her. “I’ll feel better knowing some
one I trust has checked it out.”
Before she can argue, a police SUV pulls up behind us. There are lights mounted on top, but Austin’s smart enough not to turn them on. The last thing Chelsea wants is a scene. A police cruiser car pulls up right behind that, and the cops get out and confer with each other.
Chelsea has the door open on my truck before I’m totally unbuckled, and she’s already talking to Austin by the time I reach her side. “I’m sorry to bother you; I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“Not a bother at all. It’s good to see you, Chelss.” He nods to me. “Mark. Everyone, this is Officer Studebaker.”
There’s some grunting and nodding and other pleasantries as we shake hands and meet the young-looking cop beside Austin. The whole thing feels weird since we’re all standing in the driveway in the dark.
Chelsea wrings her hands in front of her. “Thank you all for coming,” she says. “I’m sure this is all just—oh my God.”
All of us gasp as Austin trains the beam of his flashlight over her car. Holy shit.
The cops take a few steps forward to survey the damage. Glass litters the driveway, sparkling like water as they flick their lights across an ocean of it. All four tires are slashed to ribbons, and there’s something scrawled across the front windshield. I glance at Austin and see his jaw is rigid.
When he meets my eyes, I know damn well what he’s telling me.
Get her inside.
Chelsea shivers, giving me a good excuse. “Come on.” I slide an arm around her shoulders, surprised at how chilled she is. “Let’s get you warm and let Austin do his job.”
“But—”
“I’ll join you in a minute,” Austin says, grabbing a radio off his belt. “I’ve got some questions for you.”
I’m guessing he means Chelsea and not me, but I can’t read much more in his expression. Chelsea looks like she wants to resist, then deflates. She lets me lead her to the front door, hands shaking as she unlocks it.
“Chelsea, thank God.” A young woman with purple streaks in her hair greets us at the door, then steps aside so we can enter a well-lit living room. I’m guessing this is the babysitter. “I didn’t know what to do.”
