Chapter XII Working Dog （Brady）
XII
Working Dog
(Brady)
I’ll admit it.
I can be denser than a damn rock sometimes, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who fucked up here.
That guy was a catastrophe, and I’m not sorry.
I scattered his miserable ass so he’d stop growling in Lena’s face.
He had to go.
And if he wasn’t leaving when she told him, someone had to make him. Now he’s gone and the danger is over, so why is she coming apart?
I shut the door behind me and clasp her shoulders, urging her back inside and leading her to the sofa.
Her whole body shakes. Some trauma response.
Shit.
I’m no shrink, but is this a panic attack?
Thankfully, I’ve never had my nerves fried before. The worst of the carnage in Syria that chewed up other guys just left me numb. There are also days when I wonder if icy, detached calm is my trauma.
“Hey.” I smooth a hand down her back, warming her. “Breathe for me. It’s okay. He’s not coming back.”
She gulps air so fast she coughs, her breath rattling. It’s like feeling years of pent-up emotion working its way out.
“You . . . you shouldn’t have butted in,” she whispers. “Not with him.”
Seriously?
That’s where she’s going with this?
Call me an asshole, but when any dude threatens a woman at her house, I’m not the type to stand there and watch like I’m at a damn petting zoo.
“You asked him to leave. He didn’t. What choice did I have?”
“I had it under control, Brady.” Her voice hardens, but I can sense the doubt.
“You did the best you could. I never doubted that. But I saw the way he got up in your face. You needed a hand, Lena.”
My gaze sweeps around her small house, taking it in.
It’s a small place in an old working-class neighborhood.
A cheap fixer-upper from the 1950s or maybe something she inherited.
The kind of home that’s no longer cheap at all in a city that seems like it’s racing to break new records for eye-popping prices.
It’s cozy and clean enough, though. Also, it smells like her—that subtle apple-blossom scent mixed with spitfire that’s driving me mad.
“I hate this. Hate it. I don’t cry like this, I swear.” She sniffs loudly, wiping a shaky hand across her face.
Anyone else would say she looks like hell, but to me, all I see is heaven.
Where the fuck is my mind?
If Nancy ever cried—and I’m not certain she ever does for good reason—you can bet she rehearsed being a pretty crier.
Lena keeps trembling.
Her appearance is obviously the last thing on her mind. Not with this fountain of grief overflowing. But somehow, it just makes her more appealing—seeing her so vulnerable.
“Here.” I wipe her cheeks with my cuffs. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. Now try telling me in a way I might believe.”
She gives me a feeble laugh, which still feels like a victory.
“Why are you here?” she whispers.
“I came to meet you. Remember?”
Her face blanks. “I really don’t. What is it today?”
“We have plans tomorrow. I wanted to discuss them and avoid any surprises.” And honestly, it’s getting harder than it should be for a single day to slip by without seeing her.
That’s not something I’ll be saying to her face anytime soon, no.
It’s still a harsh fact I don’t want to admit.
But seeing her like this, raw and helpless, when I’ve seen how fiercely she defends herself strikes fire in my blood.
I don’t want to put a name on it, or even think too hard.
I just know if that ugly swaggering peacock fuck ever threatens her again in front of me, I’ll be turning his face into a sack of gravel.
Screw the consequences.
He should’ve thought harder before he tried to put his hands on her.
Her breath steadies a little now. Still coming too fast, still not even, but not the panicked gasps I heard earlier.
Good.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did, Brady. I just . . . I don’t want you getting involved with him,” she says quietly, averting her eyes. “He’s not your problem. You’re paying me to look pretty and put on a show, not to hold my baggage.”
Like hell.
But that’s an argument for later.
For now, I need to get her out of this place.
What if he comes back and I’m not here?
I have a sneaking suspicion she won’t go easy, though.
“Feel like getting some fresh air?” I touch her back lightly. “How about getting out of here and heading back to my place? I was thinking pizza tonight.”
“Takeout again?”
“Or I can cook, but I’m not sure you’re ready for that. It’s the one skill I didn’t grow up with. I’ve been trying to teach myself the last couple years, but I still burn thirty percent of my meals that don’t get thrown in a slow cooker.”
“Only one skill?”
“I was a precocious little rat.”
To my relief, she laughs again, sad but genuine.
With one hand lingering on her back, I help her up. “Come on. I’ve got a car waiting out front.”
“Luis? Hang on. I don’t want him to see me like this . . .”
“Believe it or not, I drove myself. I can operate a car, you know.”
“Wow! This must be like your third time now? Promise me I’m not risking a broken neck if I ride with you.”
I chuckle at the teasing in her voice.
“Okay, fine. But I need a shower first. I never had a chance, and you’d be surprised how pet smells linger after a full day.”
I give her time to clean up, idly checking my phone for emails in her small living room. There’s nothing groundbreaking today with my food project or my slice of digital media.
Lena’s well-being never leaves my head.
Neither does the impulse to cave her ex’s face in.
When she emerges, she’s dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans. Her face looks a thousand times better without the tear tracks.
I let out a wolf whistle until she blushes.
“Idiot,” she clips, but she doesn’t fight me as I take her arm and we head outside. I check around us as Lena locks up behind me.
No sign of the clown who came here barking threats.
My SUV waits on the curb, and I help her in before climbing into the driver’s seat.
It doesn’t take long to get to my penthouse. We’re mostly silent until we’re through the traffic and up my elevator, heading into my living room.
“I always forget how big it is.” She sighs.
Compared to her little mid-century house, I guess so, but there are days when I’d prefer a smaller space. I don’t do much here besides work and sleep, or else brood in front of the firepit on the balcony long after most of Seattle falls asleep.
Call it what it is—first world problems for a man who’s learning to carve his name on the world with more than money.
I get her seated and bring her a glass of water.
“So, tomorrow,” she prompts. “What are we doing again?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
She folds her arms like she’s hugging herself, looking so small. She’s still not making much eye contact.
She may look more relaxed, but there’s no mistaking how guarded she seems after that Salvador Dali–mustache creep crashed her evening.
I don’t usually let my anger simmer—growing up, grudges were a luxury. Any resentment had to be abruptly squashed under the stifling blanket of polite civility.
Most people think of rich guys as being spoiled, and maybe we are. But for me, growing up old money, everything about my life was so perfectly planned and conditioned I wasn’t free to misbehave.
Not until I started to mutiny, acting out as a teenager.
Guess that rubbed off when I chose a life in the public eye, every movement and word carefully crafted for effect.
There’s no room for impulsivity.
Yet here I am.
My mom would call me confused right now.
My dad would throw a fit over laying hands on an intruder instead of waiting for the hired help to do it for me.
That doesn’t mean I have any intention of changing a single damn thing.
Lena huffs out a long breath, her chest heaving as she pushes out every last bit of air in a long sigh.
I shuffle closer, taking her hand.
“Forget tomorrow. Tell me about today,” I press gently. “Don’t mince words or worry what I’ll do. Because any guy after you is my problem.”
She narrows her eyes. “I already told you he wasn’t.”
“Listen, Sass. The second I heard you tell him to leave and he didn’t, he became my issue. Top of the fucking list. I wasn’t about to stand back while he tried to muscle his way into your house.”
I stop short of telling her that I’m not going to let her leave here tonight. Not until I know the situation and assess whether or not she’s truly safe.
I already know there’s more to this than meets the eye. Until today, I’ve never imagined her truly scared before.
“Think of it as returning the favor after you helped me with Nancy.”
“You didn’t need my help.”
“Sure as hell appreciated it, though. Paying you back, that’s the least I can do.” I glance at her slowly. “What the hell did he want?”
“He just wanted to talk about the clinic.” She closes her eyes and leans back against the sofa.
“Bullshit.” I squeeze her fingers. “He didn’t just look like he came to talk business.”
“He’s a cutthroat.”
“He’s a psycho. That’s not the way you look at competition.”
Her eyelids flutter. “How did he look at me?”
Like prey.
“Like he wasn’t done with you. Like you just broke up yesterday.” I go with the second-best answer.
Also, the bitter truth.
That man looked at her like he wanted to devour her, and not in some kind of sadistic, sexual way.
More like he wanted to destroy her. Like her tears amused him. Like he wanted to take her apart, piece by piece, purely for the joy of leaving her shattered.
Too far? Maybe. There’s still no way in hell I’m letting that happen to her again.
“Did he ever hurt you? Tell me the truth.” It’s a heart-wrenching question I hate to have to ask.
Lena’s nostrils flare as she drags in a deep breath.
“It’s a long story,” she whispers. “We dated in college, like I told you. A couple messy years where I didn’t know any better. I really lost myself, Brady.”
Outwardly, I’m steel. Inside, my blood boils at the thought that the fucking thief stole two years of her life.