Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
It’s so bad that the dog has more sense than me.
I turn my head when Oliver doesn’t answer and find him staring out over the kennel run, arms crossed, one broad shoulder leaning against a wooden column. I allow myself to drink him in. It’s kind of thrilling that I know what he looks like under those expensive threads of his. The long, graceful muscles of his thighs, the wide expanse of his back. That ass. I know the sounds he makes. Where he likes to be touched. Where I like to touch him. And now I’m sniffing his jacket like an addict denying her problem.
Come on, Evie. Get it together. The man is no Romeo.
I begin to slip out of his jacket when he appears to come back to himself.
He glances around the space the volunteers use as a base. It’s even more ramshackle than the rest of the sanctuary. “What makes you ask?”
“You were nice to me.” I throw his jacket across the space, and he catches it effortlessly.
“Was I?” His purring tone catches me off guard, his earlier words echoing in my ear. I’m not going to be nice to you. You’ll thank me for it. “You must’ve caught me on an off day,” he adds, dropping his jacket to the blue plastic office chair, the one with a wonky leg.
“That I can believe.”
“Because my powers of persuasion are winning you over?”
“Oliver, seriously. You’re looking at the wrong person. You need an actress.”
“Why, when we already have a relationship.”
“What relationship?” I ask, my tone flat.
“We’re friends. Friends who really like to—”
“Hand me that bag,” I demand loudly—the Evie equivalent of la-la-la-laa! as I point to the bag of doggy treats on top of a battered filing cabinet. I’m kind of surprised Bo hasn’t beaten me to them. Oliver closes his mouth with a smirk and does that spiky brow thing he does. The one that makes me want to shave it off. “Please?” I tag on heavily.
“My pleasure.” He throws the liver treats my way. “You’re missing the point. The involvement of an actress wouldn’t hurt Mitchell nearly enough. That’s what makes you perfect for this.”
“I’ll keep saying it if I need to—I’m not interested in revenge.”
“A fact I find astounding after what he did to you.”
“I just want to move on.” I take out a couple of treats, shove the bag into one pocket of my damp scrubs and the treats into the other. “I’m sorry about your jacket,” I add, noting the smear from Bo’s paws. “I’ll take it to the dry cleaner.”
He eyes it impassively. “Dump it. It’s ruined.”
“It’s just a little mud,” I chide, but he dismisses the topic with a flick of his hand.
“This animal sanctuary—does Nora take only dogs? And sheep?”
“Cats. Dogs. Sheep,” I reply, glad the topic of conversation has turned. “All kinds of things.” As I make my way into the yard, Oliver follows, and the din starts up: low barks and high yips, the puppies excited for company. “She had a llama a few months ago that someone was keeping on the twelfth floor of a high rise.”
His expression, it’s like that won’t quite compute. I guess in his world people aren’t given to flights of fancy. Or mental illness.
“She found him a home on a farm in Kent, but it’s mostly dogs she gets.” Shooing Bo out of the way, I turn to the first kennel run and unlock the gate. “Sadly, a lot of them have been through some kind of trauma. Isn’t that right, Mouse?” The improbably named Mouse might be the result of a three-way between a lurcher, a Shetland pony, and a wolf. And right now, he’s all teeth and growl.
“Eve, I think—” Oliver holds out his hand, his mouth beginning to form a word that looks a lot like stop. I don’t, slipping quickly into the pen.
“It’s fine. It’s you he’s growling at. He doesn’t like men, thanks to his last owner. Me and Mouse are buddies, aren’t we, sweetie?” Thick gums cover his teeth as I slip a liver treat between them. His tongue lolls as he chews, and as I pat his head, I swear he gives me the doggy version of a goofy grin. “It’s not everyone you’ll let stick a thermometer up your tushy, is it?”
“You’re close friends, then?” I laugh at that one. “Nora pays you to do that?”
“No. Labor of love, remember?” My hands move over Mouse, my assessment thorough but brief. “He had a couple of broken ribs when he arrived. Some nasty cuts and bites, but everything is healing nicely. Next week you get your booster,” I baby talk, taking his face in my hands.
“He’s got a head like a battering ram.”
I make a show of covering Mouse’s ears. “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Are they all abandoned?” he asks as I slip out from the kennel, throwing Mouse another treat.