by Lavinia Kent
Unmanageable is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2019 by Lavinia Klein
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780525479932
Cover photograph: © Just Dance/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
By Lavinia Kent
About the Author
Chapter 1
“Now, don’t you even think of giving Mrs. Clouster a hard time.” Veronica stared into Baxter’s soulful brown eyes and tried to read a promise in them. The day was going to be hard enough without him causing her any problems. She suppressed the edge of irritation that had been playing with her since she’d gotten up. “You know we’re doing this for your own good. You don’t want to get fat, do you?”
The truth was, Baxter was already fat, truly fat, roly-poly fat, and there didn’t seem to be any way to change that. Veronica could never resist that chocolate gaze, and any time she had a snack, Baxter ended up with a good part of it.
And she was hopeless at making sure he got the exercise he needed. She had the best of intentions, but her hours at work had been extreme these last months and that wasn’t even considering the three days each week she normally commuted back and forth to the city. And when winter came, that would change to almost every day. No, she was not taking good care of her boy.
Hence, Mrs. Clouster. Veronica glared down at Baxter again, at those eyes, those long silky ears. “I really need you to help me today. I have so much to get done at work and I can’t afford to be late. And don’t you even think about stopping halfway again. You know better. You weigh almost eighty pounds. How do you expect poor Mrs. Clouster to pull you? Last time she sent me a long email about how much her back hurt. I wouldn’t blame her if she left you in the yard to starve.”
Only Baxter wouldn’t starve. Chief Sullivan would bring him home again and Veronica would get a lecture on letting him escape. And she’d simply be thankful that he hadn’t been taken to the pound. Baxter, for all his age and bulk, was an escape artist. When she was watching he hardly moved from the couch, but the minute her back was turned, he was suddenly four blocks away, sitting in the middle of Nancy Beeker’s prize rose garden—or begging for his share at the Wallaces’ barbecue.
“Don’t give me that look. Mrs. Clouster’s due any minute and for once you are going to behave. I have to leave to catch the train and I don’t want you holding me up. Do you understand?”
Baxter tilted his head to the side and continued with his patient, if wanting, expression. He was the epitome of a basset hound.
No, he didn’t understand, or if he did, he’d never admit to it. The only words he ever showed an actual understanding of were cookie and dinner. Sometimes it seemed he clearly understood walk, but only because he instantly went and collapsed on the couch.
A knock sounded at the door.
Veronica glanced quickly in the mirror, making sure her lipstick was neat; ran a hand over her hips, straightening her skirt; pulled on her suit jacket; grabbed her purse, her briefcase and Baxter’s leash.
The large basset hound gave no indication that he had any intention of moving.
“I really do need to leave or I’ll miss my train.” That was far from true. She always gave herself more than enough time, but he didn’t need to know that. “Come on, boy.”
She glanced down the hall at the door. She had no intention of dragging him, even if she knew from experience that his paws almost glided over the polished boards.
Dropping his leash with a sigh, she headed for the door. She’d worry about getting him on his feet once she let Mrs. Clouster in. There was a surprising bluster to the late summer air and it wouldn’t do to keep the older woman standing on the porch.
She gave her boy one last glare and pulled open the door.
And stopped.
Holy hell. That was not Mrs. Clouster.
She blinked.
No. It definitely was not Mrs. Clouster.
She swallowed, hard, felt a flush rising up her chest.
He might be the most perfect man she’d ever seen. She tried not to gape, smoothing her skirt one more time, a deep breath pushing out her chest. Why had she worn the blouse instead of the form-fitting sleeveless turtleneck? “Hello?” she breathed out in a gasp.
“Hello,” his deep voice answered.
She stared up at him, knowing she was tilting her head to the side just like Baxter. He was tall. So tall. Six-four. Six-five. And not in the skinny, under-built way of so many tall men. Her eyes dropped to his massive chest. No, not under-built at all. Her eyes jumped back to his face, to the crinkled green eyes staring down at her from above his neat, sun-touched beard.
She didn’t care for beards, never had. But suddenly she was fighting the urge to reach out and stroke, was wondering how those dark bristles would feel against various parts of her body.
He stared back at her.
She had to say something more. Her throat was suddenly tight. Her mouth dry.
She continued to stare. Could his eyes really be the color of sea glass sparkling in the sun? It was impossible to look away.
And he just kept looking back.
“Can I help you?” And wasn’t that a bit of a screech, nails on a chalkboard?
“I’m here for your dog.”
She blinked and blinked again. Was he so beautiful that he was shining? No, it was the morning sun rising over the trees. That’s why she was blinking.
And, what? “You’re here for my dog?”
“This is 1017 Periwinkle Way, isn’t it? My aunt told me to come pick up your dog. I’m supposed to walk him and then keep him for the day because you have to work late.”
“Your aunt?” She was beginning to understand, to figure it out, but her tongue was a little behind.
“Yes, Molly Clouster. She said she’d call.”
“I didn’t get a call.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. Shit. It was set to silent. “Or rather, I didn’t know I’d received a call. I must not have taken it off silent. I keep getting a ‘wrong number’ early in the morning and I wanted a good night’s sleep. Oh, there it is. Yes, she called.”
“I understand. I’ve had that happen.”
She hesitated for a
moment, trying to find something to say, to think of a clever reply, something to keep him talking, to keep him staring at her. “So, do you like dog walking?” And wasn’t that lame?
His eyes crinkled. “I do actually. I decided to take a break from life and couldn’t think of anything better to do.” He paused, looking at her, waiting.
Was that supposed to mean something to her? There was a strange sense of expectation. “That’s nice,” was all she could think to say—normally she was clever with words, they were how she made her living, but now it was an effort to come out with the basics.
He filled in the space, rambling slightly. “I felt entitled to a little time just doing what I wanted, and what’s better than walking on the beach in the sun. Besides, Aunt Mols is family, so she had to take me in.” He grinned, clearly quite pleased with himself.
Heat rose again, but this time for a very different reason.
Entitled. That was a strange word. The edge of irritation she’d felt earlier began to rise. People who felt entitled were almost always the opposite. Her fingers curled as she resisted the urge to ask what he’d been doing before his break, modeling? With looks like his, it didn’t seem improbable. Maybe he did a little acting too? She’d dated a man like that once, a man who thought his looks entitled him to whatever he wanted.
She was being unfair. It wasn’t about him at all—and she knew it. She stepped back. If only she didn’t find him so attractive. It was as much sexual attraction as irritation that had her reacting. She was off-kilter and feeling far too emotional.
Her backward movement finally caused him to pull his eyes from her and he glanced over her shoulder. “Is that your dog?”
She turned. Baxter had rolled onto his back and lay there with all four feet in the air. A loud snore echoed down the hall—taking her momentary upset with it. “Yes, that’s Baxter.”
Even without seeing his face, she felt him rake his eyes over her boy. “He’s not quite what I expected. Aunt Mols said he was big, but I was picturing more of a Great Dane or a Lab.”
Was he really insulting her dog? “And…?”
He must have caught her tone because he said, “And nothing. I was simply surprised. I’d figured we’d go for a short run before I took him home.” He glanced down at his bare legs and running shorts.
Her eyes followed. God, he truly was perfect. No matter what she might want to think, it was impossible to deny. Muscles. Muscles. Muscles. Who could resist curling, dark blond hair on tanned skin? She forced her gaze back up, but not before noticing the brace on one knee—and the few vivid scars peeking out from beneath it.
She almost asked, but held her curiosity back. It wasn’t her business. Like what he was doing for a living wasn’t—and she needed to get her thoughts under control, to quit being catty. “Is that a problem?”
“No, I’ll just have to change my schedule a bit. I was going to pick up the Littles’ whippet. He has more energy than any dog I’ve ever known and I try to give him a few miles.”
Veronica glanced back at Baxter, who gave no sign of life beyond the rise and fall of his chest. “He never was much of a runner. My brother said he used to trip over his ears when he was a puppy. It prevented him from building up a head of steam.”
“Let me call the Littles and tell them I’m coming a little later. I know it will be okay with them. Frisbee—that’s the dog—has a dog door and a big fenced yard, so they’re pretty casual about when I come.”
Speaking of…She glanced down at her watch. “I really do need to be out of here. Mrs. Clouster said she’d drop him off after ten tonight, does that still work for you?” It had better.
“Yes. I bet she was thinking of me from the beginning. She’s in bed most nights by nine-thirty.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting, then.”
He walked over and looked down at Baxter. Veronica tried to move her eyes from the firm globes of his ass. She bet he was so firm it would be hard to pinch.
Baxter shifted enough to spread his legs slightly, clearly expecting a belly rub. Baxter was always expecting a belly rub. The man—she realized he hadn’t introduced himself—bent and picked up Baxter’s leash, ignoring the waiting belly.
Damn, those were great thighs. Thick and muscled, but not disproportionate. What did he do to get like that? Probably spent the day at the gym rather than getting a real job. He was a dog walker after all. And for his aunt. He’d already admitted it wasn’t a job he’d worked to earn.
Still—despite her misgivings, her mouth watered—what did that matter?
“Come.” His voice was firm and commanding.
She was about to tell him that Baxter wasn’t much on obeying, when just to confuse her, the dog rolled to his feet and stood. The man took a step forward and Baxter followed.
Veronica started to follow too; she really was going to miss that train if she wasn’t careful. “Oh, what’s your name? You never did mention it.”
He stopped, turned, gave her a slightly strange look. “Brian. Brian Walsh.”
“Not Clouster?”
Again, the strange look, an edge of expectation—maybe he truly was a model and thought he was famous. “My mother’s sister. And you’re Veronica Anderson—at least that’s what Aunt Mols said.”
“Yes.” She walked to the door, preceding him, and waited until he’d exited before closing the door and making sure it was locked.
He took the lead again, heading down the stairs from the high porch. “Upper unit, not lower?” he asked, clearly talking about her condo, his eyes dropping to the lower door, to the side at the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes. Which is why I don’t have a yard for Baxter, only a small balcony deck. Although I think half his exercise comes from climbing these stairs.”
Baxter proved her point by carefully moving step by step.
Brian smiled at the dog. “It is a good location though.”
“Only two blocks from the beach. That makes up for a lot.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs and proceeded down the very short walk.
“I’ll head toward the water, then. How far do you normally walk him?”
She took a step in the opposite direction. “I’m usually lucky if we make it to the shore. I try to go as far as we can—but I want to be sure he’ll make it back. He’s no fun to drag. If he gets worn out, I have to wait until he decides to walk again.”
“Aunt Mols mentioned that. I don’t think I’ll quite have that problem. I’m very good at getting my way with dogs. They sense I’m not taking any shit—and besides that, I’ll carry him if I have to and I don’t think he’ll like that for long. He’ll choose to walk.” Something in his tone made her believe it.
“Fine, I’ll see you tonight, then. I’ll call if there’s any change in my schedule.” She forced herself to turn away and begin striding toward the train station. She was not going to stare at his fine ass as he walked. She was not.
* * *
—
Fuck, she was smokin’. Dear Aunt Mols had forgotten to mention that fact, probably intentionally. That stiff business suit and those heels. Fuck, those heels. Any man who saw her legs was going to think of them wrapped about his back. He doubted that she realized the effect they would have on a man—or perhaps she did. And that wasn’t even talking about her breasts, her lips, or that dark, curly hair. Veronica Anderson seemed like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
And she hadn’t realized who he was, hadn’t recognized him. That had been kind of erotic in its own right. He was so used to women who came on to him because of who he was, women who had no interest in getting to know him. Not that Veronica had expressed any such interest, but then again, she thought he was just the dog walker. Although maybe she was a woman who didn’t display her interest in any man.
Except perhaps with…He glanced down at the
dog, at Baxter. “You have her wrapped around your little finger—paw—don’t you? I’ve got a feeling you get away with whatever you want.”
Baxter opened his mouth and let his tongue hang out in what could only be described as a smile.
“You probably could have run with me and Frisbee if you wanted to, but you don’t. You’re more than content to be lazy and move at your own pace,” he continued—and then laughed. “I’m talking to a dog. Even with walking them for Aunt Mols these past couple months, I’ve never done that before.”
Brian picked up the pace, forcing Baxter to follow. His knee gave the slightest twinge, but nothing compared to what running would feel like. Shit. It was all such a careful balance.
Exercise.
Exercise.
Push it. Push it.
But never too hard. No, never too hard.
He could hear both his physical therapist and his trainer commenting in the back of his mind.
The problem was, he’d always gone hard, pushed it as far as he could. How was he supposed to learn to slow down? Nobody had ever taught him how.
His gut clenched. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He wasn’t going to think about it. Wasn’t going to think about what he’d lost.
Yes, miracles happened. He’d seen a few of them, experienced a few of them.
But this time, he knew his luck had run out. His knee might improve, but never again would it do what he needed it to.
He glanced down at the dog again. Baxter was trotting along, happy as could be, both tail and belly swinging.
He glanced ahead at the beach, at the endless open.
Feeling sorry for himself would accomplish nothing. It was a beautiful day. He had a wide-open beach and a friendly dog to walk. There really wasn’t anything to complain about. Life was good. He just needed to remind himself of that.
