Chapter III Cat Got Your Tongue （Lena）
III
Cat Got Your Tongue
(Lena)
Here comes this idiot again.
I pause what I’m doing just to glare out the window as the sleek black SUV pulls up in the parking lot and idles like a tank.
“Does this man ever drive himself?” I mutter to Trish, the receptionist.
“Who cares? He’s cute. And rich.” She taps the keyboard and cackles loudly as she stares out at Brady and the young Latino man climbing out of the car.
“Seriously, Trish?”
“What? I ain’t as young as you, but my eyes still work just fine,” she drawls in her East Tennessee accent.
She must have brought a Southern appetite for men too. I definitely can’t understand it.
“Well, don’t get too attached. He’s a total piece of work. I wonder if he would’ve picked up that corgi at all if he didn’t have social media brownie points to gain.”
I purse my lips sourly, hating that I regret those words.
The fluffy dog looks happy.
Charlie bounces out the second Brady opens the passenger door, a ball of energetic fluff who delights in pulling on his leash.
Brady almost loses his grip and catches it again with a grin. His shirt strains across his shoulders.
Seriously, this man is built like a statue come to life.
He drags a hand through his thick dark hair as he gives his chauffeur slash babysitter a wry look.
Another car pulls up then, a Volkswagen, and a little old lady jumps out of the driver’s seat, practically screaming.
Charlie yips with sheer excitement, barking loudly even through the glass. He almost goes airborne as he leaps, testing Brady’s leash grip all over again.
I’m not smiling.
I promise you I’m not.
“Look at you! All smiles,” Trish says like an annoying mind reader.
“He’s a cutie—the dog, I mean. Look how happy he is to see his mom.”
“Adorable,” she declares, but her tone leaves it ambiguous who she’s describing.
I huff a breath.
Whatever.
Yes, Brady Pruitt is fine in that hypermasculine, hyperaware way guys are when they know they’re attractive and they have the resources to strut around like gods among us mere mortals.
But that’s not something that turns my crank.
Not even a little.
And little old Mrs. Hernandez lowers herself to the ground to greet Charlie properly, rubbing his back as he licks her face.
Adorable is right.
Brady turns and reaches into his vehicle—is it even his car if the other man drives?—and pulls out a heaping basket of treats and dog toys.
Oh my God.
I wrinkle my nose.
Why does he have to do it? Blow all my ugly expectations to pieces by being so nice?
I’m half expecting him to pull out his phone and make a big scene, but he doesn’t.
He’s a grade A prick, yeah, but at least he’s a generous one. That’s slightly less horrible.
I feel like I’m betraying myself by even admitting it.
But Mrs. Hernandez beams like it’s Christmas morning. She gives him a big, heartfelt hug.
“See?” Trish says sharply, drilling her gaze through my face. “Cute as hell, inside and out.”
“You better be talking about the dog.”
“Uh-huh.” She giggles again.
Sigh.
With one last wave, Brady turns and heads into the clinic.
My guilt eases quickly, knowing he’s here to make my day worse.
Trish rivets her eyes to the screen again, typing an email as she grabs her headset. “I’d better give you guys some space. Y’know, so you can talk out your feelings. Back room’s open if you need it.” She winks at me.
“Traitor,” I hiss.
Then the bells on the door jingle as Brady steps inside, something clasped under his arm.
“Lena,” he says with another look that snips my soul in half.
Holy hell. Is this man trying to start a fire with those eyes?
And when he smiles—I’m gone.
There’s a slight tilt to his smile—not quite the rehearsed look I expected.
Unexpected and, somehow, almost worse.
That doesn’t change anything, though.
“Special delivery,” he says, holding up the box under his arm. “Consider it a thanks to the clinic for all your help after hours. Lots of quality dog treats for your visitors.”
I don’t want to accept the box, but before I know what’s happening, he’s shoved it into my arms. The thing must weigh more than ten pounds.
“I also want to apologize,” he says.
“Apologize? For what?” I adjust the box in my arms, keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground.
His gaze flicks to my stance, and a smile tugs at his lips. “For not making a solid first impression. I regret it.”
Oh, so he picked up on the obvious, huh?
Fine, whatever. I don’t want to spend more time here gabbing with him than I need to.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say flippantly. “I’m glad Charlie could crash with you until his owner could pick him up.”
He meets my gaze with those flashing blue eyes that feel more piercing than they have any right to be.
“Actually, I was hoping I could thank you personally. How about a drink later?”
A. What.
My brain shuts down.
Is he seriously asking what I think he is?
“A drink?” I repeat numbly.
“Whenever you’re off shift.” He shifts his weight as he waits for my reply, like he’s certain I’ll leap into his arms.
I don’t even know how to respond.
Not with every muscle in my body locked up.
Some distant part of me screams that I need to stay professional, but I’ve just lost every desire I ever had to be nice because he’s basically asking me at work to be his sidepiece.
Smoking-gun proof he’s every bit the asshat I imagined.
“Absolutely not,” I spit. He blinks in surprise. “I don’t date guys who are taken—crazy, I know—and I’m not interested in men who turn decent human behavior into a spectacle.”
Trust me, I’m being nice, even if I sound like the rudest bitch on earth.
The shock that flits across his face makes the crack in my professional mask worth it.
Dr. Ezzie might have my spleen for spouting off at work, but no one needs spleens, anyway.
“Taken?” His voice loses that smug, almost flirtatious edge. Then he chuckles deeply and shakes his head. “Oh no, you think—I’m not taken at all.”
“Really? You’re telling me you’re not with Miss Attitude?”
“Nancy? Nah, fuck. We’re just friends. And barely.” He shakes his head again, maybe for emphasis, but it just makes me think of Shakespeare—he doth protest too much.
“Friends,” I clip coldly. “She was pretty bossy for a friend.”
“We’re not together,” he insists. “And I’m not—what do you mean, making a spectacle?”
I shrug. “What would you call taking a video of poor Charlie for internet points? You must’ve posted it online.”
A muscle ticks on his jaw, even as keen awareness sweeps across his eyes. I hate noticing how that makes them look. How the color deepens.
“I get how it looks,” he says firmly. “I only took a few clips on my phone so I could post about Charlie to my followers. I’ve got a good-size presence on Instagram and YouTube. I asked them to donate to a charity that helps lost dogs.”
How convenient.
“Great. But even if I believed one iota of that, you are so not my type.”
As in, I would rather go out with a bowl full of worms.
He seems to get what I don’t say from my expression, a thin line appearing between his brows, but before either of us can say more, the door’s bells chime again.
There’s a deafening bark, and a familiar dog explodes inside.
Sherry, a very mildly named Doberman with a huge hyperactive streak and a strange love for visiting the vet. She’s here for a follow-up on a knee scrape, and she’s predictably escaped her owner’s leash.
The deer-dog launches herself at me full force.
I yell as Sherry’s weight hits and sends me spinning, my arms still full of that stupid box of treats that ruins my center of gravity.
My life flashes before my eyes. I see an ER visit in my future. An expensive co-payment. Maybe a potential concussion.
But just when the world tilts and I’m about to hit the hard tiled floor, two strong arms catch me, pressing me against a slab of pure warm stone.
Brady’s chest.
Sherry hits the ground with a loud bark.
And I’m stunned, staring up into Brady’s mesmerizing blue eyes, the concern in them unmistakable.
Oh.
Oh shit.
He smells good, too, all subtle cologne that doesn’t blow my nose off. Fresh sea breeze and citrus and something more primal underneath.
Not deodorant, not laundry powder, but man.
Something in my belly flips over.
Not the reaction I need.
His face is so serious, but the light in his eyes shifts. There’s no unseeing the heat flare.
Oh no, no, no.
Absolutely not.
I am so not going to let this cheesy meet-cute thing happen to me.
And Trish is standing up, forming an audience with a couple grinning clients, watching me defying gravity in this handsome stranger’s arms.
I snap back into my senses and struggle to my feet, taking a large step back to give us both some much-needed breathing room.
“I have to get to work,” I snap, putting the box on the reception desk and brushing myself off. Trish can deal with it later. I start walking.
“You’re welcome!” he shouts after me.
I don’t dare look back.
I don’t need to see how the heat in his eyes dies.
My ears are still ringing as I stop moving, burning like they’re a hundred degrees. Sherry’s owner, a stocky man in his fifties, bursts through the door, bellowing, “Oh God! I’m so sorry! She just got away from me.”
“That’s all right.” I keep my back turned on Brady, pointedly ignoring him. “Let’s go get her settled in, shall we?”
After the dramatic near-face-planting incident, I thought this day couldn’t get worse.
I thought wrong.
It’s just after close. I’m finishing up my shift and closing down the clinic when I hear a voice that walks needles up my back.
Harry Jay?
It can’t be.
It’s been years since I last saw him, since he smashed my heart with a sledgehammer. But I’d recognize that smarmy, radio-perfect voice anywhere. And somehow he’s here, standing in the lobby, announcing to Trish that he’s here for a meeting with Dr. Ezzie.
I do the only sane thing a girl in my position can—I dive into the cleaning closet.
Not my finest moment, I’ll admit. But there’s no way I want to risk Harry getting a good look at me.