Chapter V Woof! （Lena） #2
“Flattering. I’ll work on raising that up to an even seventy.”
I glare at him, second-guessing my state of mind.
It’s a terrible idea to get involved with him at all, I’m sure. Tomorrow Lena is already side-eyeing me hard, demanding to know what the hell I’m thinking for even considering this.
But an evening out still feels better than moping over my nightmare ex and a business deal I can’t control. I’m due for a distraction, and a free drink or two feels like the ticket.
Even so, there’s no way I’m going out dressed like this and covered in dog hair.
“Two hours,” I say. “We’ll meet at Benny’s. I’ll Uber.”
Benny’s is a local wine and espresso bar, which gives me the option of keeping it cool and getting a small coffee flight or yielding to temptation with alcohol.
I know which way I’m leaning, but I’d be stupid to let my guard down around him too soon.
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a smug, delighted glint in his eyes as he says, “Wish granted, Lena. See you soon.”
This is not a date.
It’s so not a date that I settle for a casual dress, nothing showy. Blue, summery, soft, and warm—something that screams modest comfort and not I’m going home with you later.
Because that’s not happening with half a dozen drinks. Not even ten, and I’m a lightweight who can’t pound it back like I used to.
The only reason I agreed to see Brady Pruitt is not his smoking hot body or the way his eyes felt magnetic when he asked me out.
Nothing to do with his mile-wide shoulders or the softness of his thick, dark hair or the scruff of shadow around his lips that could melt any red-blooded woman with a single scrape.
Still, I hate that I even had to think about what to wear to my next mistake.
When I get there, he’s on time, seated and waiting at the bar with one hand raised as soon as he sees me.
The place is crowded. More than usual for a breezy Wednesday evening, but then again, I don’t usually go out midweek. Not since Elle married herself off to a god and my other friends fell into careers where they live at the office.
In the corner, a few college guys hoot about something, clustered around one guy’s phone. Work colleagues in their business wear gather around another table, slowly swirling their wineglasses in idle conversation.
The best part is the smell: vibrant coffee and the subtle twang of wine.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I make it to Brady’s side. He helps me up onto the stool with a hand.
An actual gentleman.
Dangerous.
“You made it. Gotta admit, I wondered if you’d ghost,” he says over the low, thudding music.
“And look like I’m scared of what? You?” I snort. I nod toward the group of ladies in their thirties and forties. “Someone had to save you from those wine moms. Total cougar pack over there.”
His deep chuckle should be lost in the noise, but it vibrates through me. I watch his throat bob with the overwhelming sense that I’ve already sealed my doom.
When he leans in, I do my best to ignore his scent, that citrusy sea cologne again mingled with testosterone. It’s unfair how he smells like he just swaggered off a warm beach in Maui.
He’s dressed up for the occasion, I think, wearing charcoal slacks and an off-white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
I hate that I’m a sucker for rolled sleeves when men have muscles to show off. Especially when half the single men around here either don’t lift or still dress like they’re teenagers.
This man has guns. Sculpted, intense, and accented with a hint of a Celtic tattoo weaving up one bicep that makes him look even bigger.
Eyes on his face.
His face, Lena. Now.
This is the twenty-first century and I’m a sensible girl. We’re not animals fresh off some cheesy sexting conversation from an app.
I have standards.
It’s just entertainment—something to take the edge off a long, beastly week.
“So how about that drink? I’ve got you covered tonight.”
“Only if I take the next round.” The words are too aggressive, but I can’t help myself. He might be inhumanly rich, but that doesn’t mean I’ll skimp on paying my way, outside the obligatory top-shelf drink he promised.
“Sure.” The corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Espresso martini. That’s their signature thing here,” I decide.
Best of both worlds. Who needs sleep, anyway?
“Good plan.” He gestures to the bartender and orders. While we’re waiting, he props his elbow against the table and looks at me again.
How does he do it?
Making me feel so small with just a glance?
I can’t lie—it’s a little unsettling.
Also a lot disconcerting when men this fit usually aren’t strong in the subtlety department. They’re prone to getting grabby rather than stripping me down with bedroom eyes.
Is this a thing rich guys practice? Flirting with just the eyes?
“Thanks for bringing Charlie home last week,” I say. “And, um, for saving me from getting knocked down by Sherry. Her owner swore he’d work on her manners for the last two years, and it still hasn’t happened.”
“She was just enthusiastic.” A small smile, but he shrugs. “You handled it well. I just broke your fall.”
“Mm.” Our drinks arrive, and I take a large sip. Sweet perfection. The coffee, vodka, and sugary liqueur go down like water. Too easy. “So how many pets do you have? Any purebreds?”
He pauses mid-sip and stares at me before he swallows.
“None. I’m too busy to invest the time, and my parents never allowed it, growing up.”
I can’t hide my surprise.
“Wow, really? With the fundraisers and animals on your channel, I guessed you’d have a whole menagerie.”
“Not yet. Maybe that’s why I care so much for everyone else’s pooches and cats.” He sips his own martini, reflecting, and I watch the way his throat moves.
“But they wouldn’t let you have one dog? Don’t tell me it was a money thing?”
“It was an optics thing. Image is law when you grow up like I did. We had all the resources in the world to have a few dogs, sure—hell, even a small hobby farm a few hours away. But my mom wouldn’t dirty up the house with a puppy, and Dad won’t be seen showing a single human crack in his armor.”
Interesting and complicated.
The more I learn, the more I want to know, and that’s not good. It shows the lack of excitement in my life.
Hanging out with him feels more interesting than a lonely bath at home, though. The bar is so low it’s basically a flooring pipe.
But it doesn’t mean anything.
Yet I still find myself leaning forward, my body language open. Tell me more.
Maybe by the end of the night, he’ll spill some dark secret that would bring his family’s entire empire crashing down.
Or maybe he’ll offer me a ride home on a unicorn, but a girl can dream.
He gives me that sharp, spearing glance again, like he’s looking at the most interesting woman in the world.
“You really do love animals, don’t you?”
I blink. “I mean, that’s kinda a given, considering where I work. With you, it’s more interesting because you don’t have to love them to make rent. Where does it come from if you didn’t have any pets, growing up?”
“I was big into greyhound races when I was young. My grandfather’s hobby.
He’d take me out to the tracks pretty often.
He’d usually lose a bundle on his bets, but he loved it to death.
I loved hanging out with dogs on the side, and Gramps had the weight to get us VIP access.
My mother hated me when I kept begging her to open a racetrack in Seattle three Christmases in a row, even after Gramps was gone. I wanted her to name it after him.”
Oof. That’s a big, heaping ask I can’t begin to imagine. The kind that only comes with money. But it’s also an adorable one for a little rich boy.
“Oh wow. Greyhounds are fascinating. We have a couple who come to the clinic.” I don’t have to fake my enthusiasm.
Too many people think these gentle giants are ugly with their lanky bodies and oversize snouts, and it pisses me off all the time. Especially when you’ll never meet a bigger sweetheart in your life than a lazy lump of a retired racing dog.
He takes another drink, but the warmth in his eyes fades as he looks past me, into the distance. “Honestly, I think my interest truly took hold later.”
“What did? Your crush on greyhounds?”
“Dogs in general.” He meets my eyes, and they’re serious. “I did a few years in the US Army. Mostly my father’s idea, to make me fly right and keep me out of trouble. It was trouble, all right, but fuck getting into that.”
I bite my lip so I don’t smile.
“Anyway, I wound up in Syria at a really chaotic time,” he says.
The confession stuns me a little. I never would’ve guessed he’s an army vet, but that helps explain the Instagrammable physique. Another piece of the Brady Pruitt puzzle I don’t know what to do with yet.
How much trouble was he in? Men like him don’t usually serve abroad. They don’t give up time and risk their neck for their country if they don’t have to.
“Surprised?” he asks. “Can’t say I blame you. Money shields you from a lot of bullshit in life. In my case, I’m glad it didn’t here. I had a lot to learn when I was nineteen.”
“That’s a wake-up call, for sure,” I admit. “What does it have to do with dogs, though?”
“A brave K-9 attached to our unit saved my life.” His voice grows serious. A bit low, slightly gritty, like the memory burns his throat coming out.
I can relate.
Some memories just do that to you. They burrow through your grey matter with hooks and claws, and every time you rake them out from the back of your mind, they draw blood.
But it’s not always bitter. There’s some sweetness too. And I can see it in the way he smiles.
Not with his mouth, but this tiny, half-hidden light swirling in his blue eyes.
My stomach flips. I’m suddenly worried it’s not just the espresso martini making my cheeks heat.
Oh boy.