Chapter Seventeen Remi
Chapter Seventeen
Remi
The kennel room was quieter without Daisy and Scout, and as I sat down in Bandit’s space, I closed my eyes and prayed for the cinder blocks to, I don’t know, come to life and bash me to death instead of having to face whatever had just happened out in the parking lot.
Yes, death by kennel block sounded fabulous.
Bandit was sitting in the corner, watching as the embarrassment threatened to swallow me whole.
It was truly amazing that until Archer Evans had walked through these doors, I hadn’t realized just how badly my trust in my own instincts were broken. That twisty knot of embarrassment was impossible to untangle when you were unsure of where you stood with someone.
I wanted him—that much was undeniable. Wanted him enough that the idea I’d been any sort of joke to him and his friends was a frigid slap of reality that stung to my bones. Those were trust issues tied to far more than him, not that he could’ve known it.
I shouldn’t want him, because despite what I knew now, I still wasn’t sure I could trust him.
I’d lied to myself so thoroughly since the night we met. That was the scariest part of the lies you told yourself: If you said them long enough, even knowing they weren’t true, eventually you’d believe them.
I don’t want Archer Evans. I’d repeat it over and over and over until my belief was unshakable.
The words needed to be inked not just on my brain, but on my heart.
The kind of ink that would never wash away and couldn’t fade with time and circumstance.
Wanting him would gain me nothing but heartbreak.
I lightly tapped the back of my head against the hard, cold blocks behind me.
A concussion might help all this sink in, come to think of it.
Bandit tilted his head.
I stopped the possible head injury and breathed out a small laugh. “Sorry, bud. Not trying to freak you out. But if you’d seen me out there, you’d try to erase the memories too.”
The door into the kennel room opened and closed.
Ness was around somewhere, as were a few volunteers, so I stayed where I was and tossed Bandit a few more of the treats I’d snagged from the supply closet.
He inched forward, snuffling them off the ground. With a lick of his chops, he looked at me expectantly. When I slowly reached my hand forward, he backed up again.
“All right,” I said gently. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
The dog’s attention wasn’t on me anymore, though. It was on the entrance to his kennel, where a giant lurking presence made my stomach flip inside out.
I slammed my eyes shut.
“Remi, can I talk to you?”
“No.”
“Remi.”
What made it worse was the tone of his voice.
It wasn’t gruff or demanding. As deep as normal, but there was something steady in it that made me want to plug my ears.
I didn’t want steady, deep voices that would make me feel better about .
. . anything. Even worse if they made me feel better about everything.
The moment I had the thought, my eyes caught on the tip of Bandit’s tail.
The tiny wagging motion at the mere sight of Archer. My mouth fell open.
“Archer, slowly open the door and come in here,” I told him, keeping my focus on the dog. “Please,” I added as an afterthought.
As instructed, Archer lifted the latch and soundlessly walked into the kennel. When he caught sight of Bandit’s hidden tail wag, his movements slowed.
“That’s for me?” he asked, clearly incredulous.
“It is. Usually it’s just the presence of processed meat that gets him going.”
“Thanks,” Archer answered dryly.
“Anytime.”
See . . . this was better. An even playing field, where I had solid footing in our interactions. The moment we stepped outside the walls of the shelter, everything went topsy-turvy, which was the surest sign of all that whatever this was, it needed to stop.
When Archer mimicked my seated position—back against the wall and legs stretched out—the free space in the kennel shrank.
In an effort to avoid accidental leg brushing (I’d just shaved and all, but still .
. . no one needed calf-on-calf action if it could be helped), I tucked my legs up against my chest.
Finally, I allowed myself to look at him.
I thought maybe he’d be staring at the dog, or avoiding my gaze after what had happened in front of his friends, but no, the man was looking directly at me.
The broad stretch of his chest rose and fell beneath his plain T-shirt, and under the harsh light of the kennel room, the veins mapping his forearms stood out against his tanned, golden skin.
Everything about him screamed strength. In all his features and limbs. In the graceful way he moved and the ease in which he interacted with the world around him, like it bent to his will simply because it was easier that way.
I don’t want Archer Evans.
The thought didn’t come quite as easily now that I was faced with him.
If I didn’t want Archer, I never would’ve reacted that way outside.
It was the wanting that turned me into a basket case.
Emotion, a big wall of it, twisted my ability to speak clearly, so I kept my attention on the dog while Archer carefully extended his hand in my direction.
“Can I have a few of those?”
Absently, I nodded, digging into the bag to give him a few pieces. My fingertips brushed the rough skin of his palm as I released the treats into his hand. The weight of his gaze was heavy on my face, but like an absolute chickenshit, I stared at Bandit.
The dog was watching the exchange with subdued interest. Archer tossed him a couple pieces, waiting patiently while Bandit eased forward to eat those too.
“Try from your hand,” I suggested.
“It’s not too soon?”
Briefly, I allowed my eyes to meet his. “I guess we’ll see.”
Archer’s chest expanded on a deep inhale, and he refused to drop my gaze. Almost like the steady eye contact fortified him. The thought caused a trembling deep, deep inside, tugging on a chord attached to my heart that hadn’t been tugged . . . ever.
I broke first, but only when it became hard to breathe.
Archer kept his movements slow, holding two pieces on the tips of his fingers as he rested his hand on the floor just out of reach. Bandit glanced up at him, then back down at the treats.
For a moment, no one moved. Not me, not Archer, and definitely not the dog. Even the other animals in the kennel room seemed to quiet.
Then Bandit, staying on his belly, inched forward. He sniffed the treats, lifting his gaze to Archer, who was staying unnaturally still. I wasn’t even sure he was breathing.
Another inch. Another look.
Then another.
With each shift forward, my heart picked up speed, until Bandit finally sniffed Archer’s fingertips.
Instead of inching forward on his belly, Bandit got up off the floor and stood, lowering his face to Archer’s prone hand, delicately eating the treats from his fingers.
I breathed out a small laugh. “You did it.”
Then I made the absolute, utter mistake of lifting my gaze to Archer’s.
He was smiling.
Wide and happy, deep grooves on either side of his mouth, straight white teeth, and the gleam in his eyes made my pulse skip erratically.
I don’t want Archer Evans, I thought with frantic urgency. I don’t want Archer Evans.
I couldn’t want Archer Evans.
He added more treats to his hand, and Bandit ate them more easily this time. When they were gone, he slowly raised his hand to scratch the side of Bandit’s neck.
My chest cracked wide open, watching the care he was taking. The slow movements, the incredible patience he’d shown.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “I bet you haven’t heard that enough before you got here.”
Oh no. This would not do.
My grip on my emotions had been tentative at best before he’d walked into the kennel, but this, I simply could not abide. Before I did something insane, like climb into his lap for a hug or burst into tears, I stood as slowly as I could manage.
Bandit backed away from Archer when I did, but not for very long.
Archer’s concern was evident, but I ignored it. Ignored the furrow in his brow and the wave of emotions that threatened to hit all at once.
“Remi?”
“I—I need to go.”
My muscles screamed to run, sprint, high-jump, whatever the hell I needed to do in order to get the fuck out of the enclosed space with the man I did not want, but I managed to cinch the untapped energy coursing through my veins.
This, folks, is what we call fight or flight.
Unfortunately for me, my nervous system couldn’t tell the difference between fleeing from a serial killer and facing my feelings for the hot, emotionally stunted football player who may or may not want to ask me out on a date.
The sanctuary of my office was short-lived, because about only thirty seconds after I sank against the closed door, there was a knock on the outside.
I groaned. Couldn’t a girl wallow properly?
“Remi?”
I do not want Archer Evans.
“Act like a grown-up, you coward,” I whispered harshly. Straightening my shoulders, I tossed my hair back and opened the door like I was totally and completely fine to be facing him again.
Archer studied my expression, then glanced down the hallway. “Can I talk to you?”
“I don’t know if that’s—”
His eyes burned. “You are not a joke to me. I didn’t tell anyone.”
A burst of laughter came from the vicinity of the meet and greet room, so I opened the door wider and motioned him inside, despite the uneven thudding of my heart when I closed us into my office together. “I don’t want anyone hearing this.”
I pushed my hair behind my ears with shaking hands, then leaned against my desk. I should’ve been on the other side, but my feet seemed bolted to the floor.
A barrier was good. A ten-foot wall would have been better, but I couldn’t afford to be so picky. And yet my ass stayed right there, with nothing but a small stretch of air and tenuous control separating us.