by Hall, Traci
Chapter Twelve
Grace got up at dawn Sunday morning, called to be on the water. She put on her red one-piece swimsuit, poured iced tea into her thermos, grabbed a bag of loose granola, and headed down to her canoe.
Paddle in hand, she pushed off the dock with a creak from the boards and cut her way through the calm, frigid waters of the bay.
The sun had barely risen, and the sky was a deep blue and gray above the ridges of the Olympic Mountains. She closed her eyes, placed the paddle across her lap, and breathed in to her toes. Saltwater, moss, pine, dogwood. There was a nip in the late summer air that hinted at fall. She opened her eyes to misty fog hovering over the shimmering water.
Quiet. She regretted not bringing her camera. The idea that she might lose this place brought on tears. She couldn’t relinquish Grandma Dahlia’s final gift to the bank, she just couldn’t.
“Waiting for the silver lining, Grandma,” she whispered.
She’d have to let her parents know, but they lived off the grid, and reaching them wasn’t easy. She’d leave a message with Pop-Pop at the General Store to relay to them, but there was nothing they could do to help.
Canoeing around the right side of the bay brought her toward the ocean’s stronger currents. She thought of going back but wasn’t ready yet. Then to her left surged a sporty lime-green kayak around the curve.
Sawyer, shirtless, as God obviously intended, stroked firmly across the water. He stilled when he saw her. They were the only two people within sight on the bay, and they stared at one another. Should they pretend not to see each other?
She lifted her hand in a wave.
He raised his paddle in answer. Would he continue home? Grace held her breath, on the edge of her seat as she waited. He’d been upset with her about Bert on Friday, and she hoped he wasn’t still.
Sawyer maneuvered his kayak around and crossed the water toward her. She released a whoosh of air from her lungs. The man was beauty in motion. His broad shoulders flexed with each stroke. She wanted to feel the play of his taut skin beneath her fingers.
“Morning,” she said in a husky tone as he brought his kayak mere inches from the side of her canoe. She sat higher in the water than he did, which gave her a view of his thigh muscles bunched in his short trunks. Dark hair swirled from thigh to calf.
“Morning.” He raised his gaze to hers, rich brown eyes framed with thick lashes beneath heavy brows. Strong nose. Full mouth.
Grace folded her hands over the edge of the bench seat, anchoring herself from the attraction she felt for him. Her belly fluttered. “How was the barbecue Friday night?” She’d imagined them having fun.
“Good. Rudy makes a mean cheeseburger.” The kayak bobbed when he shifted, though he didn’t look away. “How was your date?”
Date? Oh—right. She’d told him she had a date when she’d planned on cleaning the chicken coop and gotten the dream call from Griffin about the coffee table book, but then reality had crashed in. Grace shrugged. “I spent the evening with Lottie and Violet instead.”
His brow lifted. “Why?”
It was just the two of them on quiet water, the reflection of the early morning sky the same charcoal as the bay. Tranquil. Friday night had been the exact opposite as she’d held her friend’s hand while Lottie cried.
“It was an ice cream emergency,” she said. “Do you ever train your dogs to work with autistic children?”
“Not personally, but I know they can be helpful. The dog senses when someone’s over-stimulated and by placing pressure on their owner can change their focus before the situation escalates.” He leaned back, his abdomen a wealth of muscle, his expression contemplative.
That sounded knowledgeable. Her gaze dropped to the scar near his rib. “I know you started with Kita and Diamond in a shipping container, but how did you get into dog training in the first place?”
“I began by rehabilitating fight dogs.” Sawyer, relaxed in the kayak, tilted his head. “That led to training purebreds. The books and videos I made were a way to reach more people with very basic training guidelines.” He must have noticed her eyeing his toned stomach and tapped the jagged flesh. “My neighborhood in L.A. was a tough place to grow up. So I joined the Marines, and when I got out, a few of my friends—ex-friends—were fighting pit bulls. I scraped some money together and bought Diamond and Kita from them. The rest, as they say, is history.”
She moved to get more comfortable on the wood bench of her canoe, the water giving a slight sway. “And your wound?”
His body tensed. “Let’s just say we had a hard time agreeing on the price of the dogs.”
Grace was used to compromise and negotiation, not physical violence, and she shivered at the harshness in his voice. “Did you fight them?”
Sawyer ran his hand over the scar. “Yeah, and it was worth it. I rescued quite a few dogs from the fighting rings…but I’m starting to think I lost something when I became famous.” He ducked his head as if afraid to let down his guard, and her heart constricted.
She lightly touched his warm knee. “What did you lose?”
His leg jumped, and she brought her hand to her lap. Grace liked touching him, but she shouldn’t. Shouldn’t do it. Definitely shouldn’t like it.
Sawyer clenched his jaw. “I wanted to save the dogs for the sake of the dogs. Not the money.”
Grace had been raised to believe that money should never be life’s purpose. She was learning the hard way that cold, hard cash mattered. “Lottie says she saw your pilot for the cable show and it was pretty good.”
He actually blushed, and schoolgirl butterflies took wing in her stomach. How on earth was she supposed to keep this Sawyer, not arrogant but open, at arm’s length?
“It’s just a show,” he said, dipping the kayak paddle in the water.
“I really want to see it now,” Grace teased.
Sawyer raised his eyes. Warm brown hues that sent the butterflies into a tornado spin. “I’m more real here, trust me.”
More real? What did that mean? She wanted to sit on her back porch with him, drink iced tea, and ask him everything—or they could talk about nothing, share kisses, and get to know each other a different way. Grace pressed her hand to her stomach.
“I should get going,” he said, sinking his paddle into the water and breaking the romantic spell she’d been creating in her mind. “We’ve got four dogs scheduled for the morning, and the phones will be ringing. Don’t forget your uniform.”
“Okay.” She didn’t want him to go, but she had no reason to keep him with her. As he’d just reminded her, he was her boss. Off-limits.
He paddled away but then abruptly turned around and glided back.
“Violet is autistic?”
He’d listened. Grace smiled. “High-functioning…they keep changing how they diagnose, but yes.”
“What happened Friday night?” His head listed slightly to the right, his dark brown hair short enough that it didn’t move.
“A bad day at school. Lottie has to meet with the principal and the first-grade teacher tomorrow morning.”
He frowned. “And you believe a dog would help?”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” she asked. “Train dogs to assist people in need?” Would he help her?
“Yeah, it is, but I’ve never had a client with autism.” He lifted a hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Grace watched him paddle his way to shore, as if she could look anywhere else while his body was in beautiful motion, and drag his kayak up the hard-packed beach. She could see his house from here—glass windows, stone, and steel, modern and sleek—just like Sawyer. In comparison, her home was a mere concrete shack—just like her. Any thoughts of them being together—in any way—fled her mind.
Her boss was totally out of her league.
…
Sawyer figurati
vely knocked himself upside the head. Because he’d been so focused on denying his attraction to Grace in her red one-piece, black curls wild around her face, blue eyes brilliant as she smiled at him, it had taken him a while to put together what Grace was talking about with Violet. She turned him into an idiot.
The red-haired little girl was adorable, and he’d concluded her avoidance of eye contact was shyness. What the hell did he know about kids? Or autism?
He’d trained dogs for rich people because there was money in it. Money had made it possible to buy his parents a home. Money had enabled him to save dogs. Money had made it possible to live how he’d wanted to live. Yet he knew money had changed him somehow.
Money had bought his mansion in Seattle with a full-time staff, ensured he was seen with models and actresses at the best tables, driving the best cars. He’d always had style, but he’d transformed into a man who got his eyebrows waxed and his teeth whitened. He needed to send Daniella a thank-you note for the wake-up call.
Sawyer wasn’t sure he liked the person he’d become—not that he was a bad person, but there had to be a reason besides money to get up in the morning. He envied Bill in this way. To a fault, the man had no pretense. What you saw was what you got. It was true of most veterans he’d met, especially Rudy and the Bark Camp crew.
He rinsed his kayak off with a hose at the bottom of the ridge and glanced up the fifty feet or so to his house. Sky had her black poodle nose pressed against the picture window, peering down at him.
Suddenly, he heard a splash and a curse. When he turned and searched the bay, Grace was nowhere to be found.
Heart hammering, he scanned the blue-gray water, his feet at the edge of the beach, ready to dive in and find her. Where the hell was she? The canoe. He examined her dock—a jagged board jutted up from where it used to be, beside lopsided pilings.
Sawyer sprinted down the beach, to the dock, and waded in. Grace bobbed up in the water. Another curse traveled across the bay as she pulled the canoe toward shore.
“What happened?” Sawyer waded deeper. “Are you all right?”
Her black hair was a sleek cap against her skull, and her turquoise eyes had darkened to sapphire. Her toned arms yanked the bow forward. “Fine. I tried to put the canoe on the dock and the wood cracked.”
Even in the summer, the Pacific Ocean was frigid. He went chest-deep to help her drag the canoe to the beach. Her teeth chattered with the chill.
When they reached the shore, they dropped the canoe with a thunk.
“Thank you,” she said, shivering. “I can leave it for later. I’m sorry you got wet.”
Her purple toenails dug into the hard-packed sand. She faced him and lifted her head. She had to be at least a foot shorter than him. Her breasts pushed against the red of her swimsuit—a one-piece with sexy cutouts on the sides. A drop of water rolled from her forehead to her spiky black eyelash, and he swiped it gently with the pad of his thumb.
She startled, just as he had earlier when she’d touched his knee. Did she fight the same attraction to him? Grace breathed in, her eyes wide as she stared up at him.
“You’re so beautiful.” He pulled his hand back to keep from touching her again. Her skin was soft and smooth.
Knowing that Grace was his employee, knowing she was off-limits, didn’t stop his body from wanting her. Not just my body. That was a big freaking problem. He knew for a fact that his older brother hadn’t had feelings for the employee he’d dated.
Grace was complicated. Different from any other woman he knew. She was kind, funny. Didn’t give a crap about money or status. Her eyes dilated and her tongue peeked between her lips. She wanted him, too.
The air grew thicker with tension as they gazed at one another. Desire for her made it difficult to breathe.
One of them had to be strong. He had to be strong. “I should go.”
She made a sound low in her throat.
He peered over his shoulder to his house then swallowed and stepped closer to Grace.
“Stay.” She raised his hand and tilted her head slightly to rest her cheek in his palm. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to cup her face, to caress her soft skin. She clasped his hand and kissed his inner wrist.
Sawyer groaned as shocks of heat rocketed through him.
Her eyes fluttered partially closed, and her breasts peaked against the red fabric.
She stood on her tiptoes, mouth raised, and he scooped his arm around her waist. He had to kiss her despite the Rivera rules. What did his brother know, anyway?
He wrapped his arms around her slight body—something so powerful couldn’t be wrong.
He pressed his mouth to her lips, his hot breath warming them. Soft, feminine—so pliant beneath his that he moaned. But she was no passive bundle of flesh. She reached up and curled a palm around the back of his neck, aligning her hips with the front of his suit and the hardness there.
He licked her soft, plump lower lip and then suckled the top. Her tongue traced his lip, nipping gently before licking away the sting. Their mouths melded, devouring, give and take as they learned each other. She tasted of mint and promise. Sweet spice. He braced his legs to hold her closer.
Damn, Grace knew how to kiss. Sawyer lost himself in the feel of her, his need for her building.
The hard points of her breasts against his bare chest made him long to carry her up the stairs to his house. She entwined her fingers in his hair and gave a tug.
He could imagine her in bed—in his bed.
She inched back from the kiss with gentle pants, and he loosened his hold on her, letting her slide down his body.
“I want you,” he said, his voice deep.
She observed him with glittering eyes, sensual and knowing. Her fingers slid over the scar at his rib cage, down his hip and ass before she sighed with regret.
Why regret?
He realized the answer to them making love was no and bowed his head as his stomach tightened. He should do the gentlemanly thing and step back, but he couldn’t move from her space to save his life. She was stronger than him.
“I want you, too,” she said on a ragged breath. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea, boss.”
Chapter Thirteen
Grace spent the rest of the day replaying the scene in her head.
Sawyer’s kiss, his caress, how she’d wanted him to carry her into his new home. Then the weight of reality had pressed down, kept her feet on Mother Earth, along with the fact that she may well be homeless before Christmas.
She knew some women might use wiles to get what they wanted out of a wealthy man like Sawyer, but she wasn’t that kind. No, she came from a long line of strong, self-sufficient women who’d lived their lives taking the high road.
Grace just hoped the high road didn’t lead to living in her van.
On Monday morning, Bark Camp was officially open for business. Grace donned the cocoa brown Bark Camp work polo and tucked it into her dark blue jeans with a belt. As far as uniforms went, this was not her favorite, but it wasn’t the worst she’d ever had, either. Sawyer had given her the dress code on Friday. Of course, she was tempted to ignore it, but the bottom line was that she needed the job.
Sawyer met her at the door at eight forty-five, so good-looking she had a hard time focusing on anything but his tight designer jeans and how his polo shirt seemed to mold to his body in wonderful ways.
She focused her gaze on his mouth, his eyes, which as usual, watched her guardedly.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” Would he bring up the kiss? She’d really tried to distract herself yesterday—she’d cleaned the chicken coop, raked the garden, weeded, vacuumed, mopped, and jarred veggies for later in the season. She’d mailed out prints ordered online and submitted a couple of pictures for a photography contest Lottie had forwarded to her that she’d found w
hile browsing the web.
All the while, she’d relived Sawyer’s hand on her hip, her breasts against his chest—and dear God, the man’s heavenly kisses. She thought maybe if the coffee table book saved the day, she might invite him over. After her thirty days were up. Twenty-one, now, according to her dollar-store desk calendar.
She knew he didn’t fit in with her day-to-day, nor she in his, but there was something pleasantly different about Sawyer Rivera. And wasn’t that the spice to life?
When they went to the break room, she made sure to keep a respectful distance as he made coffee. She plugged in the electric kettle and put her lunch in the fridge. “Did you like the new personality questionnaire I sent you Friday?”
“I did.”
The air between them crackled as she waited for his critique. Nothing she did the first time around seemed to be what he wanted—even the computer cords she’d color-coordinated had been redone to his liking, although what Sawyer had against purple was beyond her.
“And?” She took out her purple mug and a rosehip tea bag.
“I like it…for the most part.”
Ha. She knew it. “I copied both sites you sent me to combine the dog traits. What did I miss?”
She’d learned over the years that the boss got to be right by default, but man, she was counting down the days until this job was over. She respected how exact he was, but it just wasn’t the way she operated.
“There’s a joke,” he said.
She crossed her arms and waited expectantly. She didn’t realize he knew how to tell a joke.
“You put two dog trainers together in a room of other trainers and the only thing they’ll agree on is that the others are wrong.”
“Not bad…and you say this why?” She dunked her tea bag in the steaming water and watched it turn a rosy pink.
“I’d like to include a crossover question at the bottom of the form, in case the owner sees the dog as having more than two or three traits that combine.”
