Chapter 7 My Dog & My Panties Betrayed Me
My Dog & My Panties Betrayed Me
GWEN
Wyatt is in my living room.
Those words have just been circling around and around in my head for the last ten minutes.
It’s as if I’m stuck on some merry-go-round that is slowly spinning out of control.
The big, gruff biker with the intense eyes and the stupidly broad shoulders is sitting on my couch, and I’m in my bedroom freaking out over a sweater dress like a teenager before prom.
I’m staring at the full-length mirror on my bedroom wall, worried that a man I just met won’t like what he sees.
How crazy is that? I smooth my hands down the front of my green sweater dress.
It clings to my body more than anything I normally wear.
Long sleeves, hem just above my knees, soft knit hugging my curves.
I paired it with brown boots, the good leather ones with a slight heel that makes my legs look longer.
My blonde hair is down, loose around my shoulders, with just a bit of wave from the curling iron. I went with mascara, a soft smoky eye, and some lip gloss. Not full glam, but definitely … effort.
I look good. I know I look good.
But I don’t look anything like the women I’ve seen hanging off the backs of bikes in town—bare midriffs, tiny shorts, boobs that give me a backache just looking at them wearing little Harley tees that look like they were painted on.
I look like I tried to dress up for a man who probably prefers tank tops and leather and women who say things like, “Ride me, Daddy” without blushing.
“I probably look like I’m trying too hard,” I mutter to my reflection.
Because I am. I want Wyatt to like me. Not just as a medical professional who patched him up, not as a woman who needed saving in a random firefight. I want him to look at me and think, damn, she’s fine. I want her. I want to keep her.
“God, I’m insane,” I mutter. Especially since all I can see is a woman in a sweater dress who owns more cardigans than lingerie. No tiny biker crop tops. No leather pants. No push-up bras that can double as a weapon. Nope, if you put them beside me, I probably look boring as hell.
Behind me on the bed, Baby sprawls on his back, little white paws in the air, Santa outfit still on from earlier—complete with tiny belt and faux fur trim.
My ridiculous, perfect, traitor of a dog.
I give my reflection one more four-second stare, then sigh and go sit beside my dog.
The mattress dips, and Baby immediately rolls over and crawls into my lap, nudging his head under my hand like he’s on a mission for pets.
I reward him by stroking my fingers through his hair.
“Did you have fun with the big bad biker today?” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. He doesn’t answer, obviously, but if dogs could purr, he’d be vibrating the whole bed. “Do you think I’m overdressed?” I ask him.
He yawns, huge and dramatic.
I giggle, wondering if this is his way of telling me I fail to compare to the biker babes in town, too. “I love you, Baby.”
“I don’t like that.”
The deep voice comes from behind me, and I freeze.
My gaze snaps to the mirror, and there he is—Wyatt—leaning in my bedroom doorway like he’s always belonged there.
Dark jeans, a black T-shirt hugging his chest, leather cut, beard just rough enough, hair a little messy like he ran his hand through it on the way up to my apartment.
Our eyes lock in the reflection, and my breath catches.
“My dress?” I ask, frowning.
Baby—now known as traitor-dog—launches off my lap, hops to the floor, and trots straight over to Wyatt.
I turn on the bed to face them and watch as Wyatt bends down and scoops my tiny poodle up like he’s something precious instead of a ten-pound ball of chaos.
He pets him slowly—his big, calloused hand gentle on Baby’s back.
I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I wasn’t witnessing it firsthand.
“I thought my dress was pretty,” I say, suddenly unsure I even look good enough to pass.
Maybe all Wyatt wants is a biker babe. Did he expect me to try to compete with them?
I stand up and look down at myself. “Is it too much? Not enough? You didn’t really tell me how to dress for tonight, you know. ”
His gaze drags over me, slow and hot, from my boots up my legs, lingering on my hips, my waist, my chest, my mouth.
When his eyes meet mine again in the mirror, they’re heated.
“You look fucking gorgeous,” he says simply.
“You’re spectacular, and if you don’t know that, then you’ve seriously been hanging around the wrong people, honey. ”
My face goes warm. “Then what are you talking about?”
He tips his chin at me, still holding my dog. “I don’t like you calling another man baby.”
I blink. “Baby is a dog, not a man.”
“He’s got a dick,” Wyatt replies completely serious. “That makes him male, and I don’t like it. His name is Buddy.”
Baby happily barks—as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
Wyatt rubs his head and murmurs, “Good boy.”
My eyes go wide. “Are you trying to rename my dog?”
“I’m not trying to rename him,” he says.
“Well, that’s good, because he’s my dog and I—”
“I’ve already done it.” His mouth curves, infuriating and sexy. “His name is Buddy,” he announces.
Baby yips again and licks his hand enthusiastically.
I narrow my eyes at the little traitor. “Are you being serious right now?” I question Baby.
He just looks at me, tongue out, a picture of pure innocence. Freaking little liar.
“Get your ass over here right now, you traitor,” I order, pointing at the bed.
Instead of obeying like the good boy he’s been for years, Baby exhales dramatically, lays his head down in the crook of Wyatt’s arm, and lifts his paws to cover his face like he’s hiding.
Wyatt throws his head back and laughs—which is totally unfair.
The deep, rough sound rolls across my room and through my body, skating against every nerve ending in my body.
Heat curls low in my belly. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
No other man has ever made my body react with just a laugh. I try to ignore it. I fail miserably.
“Baby, now,” I snap, more flustered than commanding.
Wyatt’s laughter drops into a low rumble. “I want to hear you say those exact same words, just as demanding, when you’re begging me to let you come.”
My mouth falls open. I gasp as heat floods my body—and my panties. I’m so turned on that it’s painful to breathe. “You are trying to steal my dog,” I accuse. “At this point, I don’t see us ever getting past this date.”
“We can skip the date if you want,” he suggests, amused.
A sharp little sting of disappointment hits my chest. Pain spreads until it feels like a killing blow. I hate that my pain bleeds into my voice. “Fine.”
“Good,” he drawls. “Now strip.”
“What?” Pure panic overtakes me. My whole body locks up. “You can’t be serious.”
“If you don’t want to go out, we won’t,” he says casually. “We’ll just fuck all night.”
My brain gives a dreaded blue-screen. I swear there’s a robotic voice in my head saying, “Danger, the operating system has encountered a critical problem it cannot recover from and must shut down to prevent further damage.”
He can’t say things like that in my bedroom, holding my dog while I’m in a dress that suddenly feels too tight and not nearly enough all at the same time. “You can’t be serious,” I repeat weakly.
“Oh, I am.” His gaze is hot, unyielding. His eyes promising wicked pleasures that I’ve never known—and desperately want to.
“I just want my dog back,” I say, and even I hear the whine in my voice.
“He’ll come to you. Just use his name,” he says.
“Baby is—”
“I’m your baby,” he cuts in, eyes gleaming, looking perfectly predatory. “The dog’s name is Buddy.” I glare at him, imagining I’m Superman and my gaze turns into red beams of laser-filled heat. Sadly, Wyatt doesn’t disintegrate.
Figures.
“I hate you,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t,” he replies easily.
I grit my teeth. “Buddy, get over here. Now.”
Buddy—traitorous, conniving little fluff ball—immediately jumps down from Wyatt’s arms and trots straight to me like he’s been obedient this whole time. I bend down, scoop him up, and hold him against my chest.
“You’re a bigger asshole than Wyatt is,” I complain.
He yips at me like he agrees and even gives a tiny nod of his head.
I squint at Wyatt. “You did this. You’ve ruined my dog.”
Wyatt’s grin stretches wider as he pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room toward me.
My heartbeat kicks up with every step he takes.
He stops right in front of me, gently nudging Buddy from between us, and then his hands are at my waist, large and warm, pulling me in.
Before I can say a word, Wyatt leans down and kisses me.
The world tilts.
His mouth is hot and firm, taking control like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My hands fly to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. Wyatt tastes like mint and heat, and something wickedly forbidden. My knees go weak, and I have to lean into him to stay upright.
By the time he pulls back, I’m breathless, lips tingling, brain barely functioning. He stares down at me, eyes dark. “I haven’t stolen your dog,” he says softly. “Buddy just realized things much sooner than you are.”
I lick my lips, still tasting him. “What things?”
“That he, you, me, and Caleb are meant to be a family,” Wyatt proclaims. His voice is solid, and completely self-confident—as if he has not one qualm about any of this.
I just stare at him, wondering if my heart will ever return to its normal beating pattern.
Family. Something I’ve never really had. Something I’ve always wanted. My heart does a weird, traitorous flip, and I feel myself tipping—falling—for him, which is insane. Completely, absolutely, utterly insane. I’ve known this man for one day. One. Single. Day.
“Wyatt,” I breathe, ready to jump off the edge of a cliff with him, following him wherever he wants to take me. Then my brain finally starts catching up with my heart and latches onto the last word like a lifeline. “Wait …” I blink up at him. “Who’s Caleb?”
Something flickers across his face—worry, maybe. A tiny crack in that smooth, confident exterior that this man has shown me since moment one.
“Caleb is my son,” he says softly, yet the words echo as if they were screamed.
My mind goes blank once more—something that, apparently, I should get used to around Wyatt.
Every thought I had in my head scatters like dust in the wind, swirling in so many directions it’s impossible to latch onto anything.
All I can do is look at him, feeling the weight of those words, and wondering what the heck is happening between the two of us.
And if I’ll ever survive it.