3. Ashton
ASHTON
A black SUV squeals to a stop two feet from me in the shelter’s parking lot.
My stomach drops to my feet just as my heart leaps into my throat. The smell of burnt rubber singes my nostrils, punctuating the fact I was nearly run over walking back into work.
The SUV’s driver and passenger doors both open simultaneously.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!”
Doors slam.
Two men approach me, but all I can manage is to stare at the shiny metallic grill on the front of the SUV and think just how close I came to becoming hood decor.
Fingers touch my arm.
I blink, and my gaze follows the hand up the muscular, tan forearm, past a bulging bicep in a skin-tight sheer white shirt, landing on a pair of the most gorgeous blue topaz eyes I’ve ever seen.
Ones that seem oddly familiar. Not like in an intimate sense—seeing as I haven’t dated in, oh, almost five years. But I know I’ve seen them somewhere.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
I’m drawn from those aqua depths to the deep voice next to me.
The driver turns toward Topaz Eyes and says, “I think she’s in shock.”
Another car door opens.
“Can we move things along? This dog is slobbering too close to my suit, and it smells like wet dander in here. I said ‘a quick drop-off.’ We’ve got to get a move on if we’re going to get to the shoot on time.”
At the mention of a dog, my brain kicks back into gear. “You have a dog with you?”
The man on my right exhales. “Yes, but are you alright?”
I turn to him. “Yes. Sorry, my brain is just slow on the uptake after nearly getting run over by a”—I peer around the two men to the SUV’s emblem —"Cadillac Escalade.”
The tan, muscular man to my left chuckles. “She has a sense of humor. That must be a good sign. Glad to know you’re alright. Do you work here?”
“Yes.”
“We have a dog in my vehicle that we picked up off the street. Would you mind taking a look at her?”
My animal antenna perks up. “Is she injured?”
“She’s limping a little, and there’s a wound on her back leg.”
“I can take a look, but there’s not much I can do for her here. You’ll want to take her to the closest vet clinic. There’s one about five miles south.”
The man combs his fingers through his thick, dark waves, his shirt nudging upward to reveal a layer of abs. “Yeah, that’s the thing. We’re on a bit of a time crunch?—”
It clicks. I recognize this man. From ads about a television show. Malibu Shores . I’m positive of it. Something curls in my chest, making me take a step back. I look around the parking lot. No one seems to be paying us attention, and no paparazzi appear to be around. Yet.
“—but if it’s alright with you, I’d like to go in and make sure she’s okay before we leave.” He takes a step toward the passenger side of the vehicle. I follow, ready to move this interaction inside.
“Sure. How big is she?”
As I’m about to open the door, his warm body brushes against mine, and his arm reaches in front of me to whisk the door open.
“I’d say she’s roughly fifty pounds.”
Somehow, between almost getting unalived and having insane muscles uncomfortably close, I missed noticing the dirt and grime on the shirt of…
I’m spacing on his name, but I can envision the two-page spread of his abs…
I mean, of him, in People Magazine at the grocery store.
He probably has those things insured. My cheeks flame.
Mr. TV Star must’ve carried the dog to the vehicle himself.
With the door fully open, I see the man who popped out earlier and hollered to hurry up.
He’s wiping a spot on his suit pants while talking on his cell phone.
The two men make eye contact. The one sitting in the car—rather handsome for his age despite his grumpy disposition—gives the hand signal to wrap it up.
Who is this guy? I thought Mr. Hollywood here would be the one with the busy schedule.
The grimy dog lifts her head from the seat, and wrinkles appear on her forehead. A Pit-Boxer mix, I’m almost positive of it. Her tan fur is caked in dirt, masking her white chest. She’s lying on a rumpled shirt, which is semi-wrapped around her hind leg.
“Hey, girl, let’s get you inside so I can take a look, okay?”
Her head tilts, and her floppy, point-tipped ears perk. I give her a scratch on the head.
“I’ll carry her inside for you.” The man reaches into the vehicle and hoists the dog in his arms like it’s nothing.
Guess those muscles aren’t just for looks.
“Son, we don’t have time for?—”
Topaz Eyes shuts the door with his hip, clipping off the man in the backseat. “Lead the way.”
The driver starts to follow us.
Muscles spins to the driver. “I’ll be fine. Can you park the car? It’ll just take a few minutes.”
The driver smirks but says, “Sure thing, boss,” in an accent distinctly Southern, then rounds the SUV to hop back into the driver’s seat.
We’re on the back side of the clinic—where I made my unfortunate exit earlier.
Rather than making him carry the dog to the front, I lead him through the back door.
My heart rate accelerates, thinking of the news cameras and the possibility of them still being here.
Bringing in a celebrity will only complicate things.
“This way.” I enter the closest examination room, which also happens to be the farthest from the entrance where I last saw Lynn.
He heaves the dog onto the stainless-steel examination table. A button from his shirt pops off and skitters across the table. He smacks his hand on the table and clutches it. He clears his throat as if it’ll distract me from the wider expanse of skin now exposed near his pectorals.
Having a nearly shirtless man this uncomfortably close makes me blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Did you accidentally put your shirt in the dryer?” Well, that’s one way to address the elephant in the room.
His eyebrows rise as if to say, “ Excuse me ?”
“I mean, it’s happened to me before. You’re in a hurry, you throw it on. You don’t realize it’s shrunk until you’re already in your car and late.” Oh. My. Gosh. Please stop talking.
His eyes sparkle with delight. “That must be what happened.”
“You should probably fire your laundress.”
“That’d be my cousin.”
“Ouch. That’s too bad for them.”
He pinches the shirt. “Even more unfortunate is that this is actually a brand-new shirt—a gift.”
“The person who gave it to you didn’t realize you’re a full-grown man?”
He outright laughs.
What am I saying right now? Who is this person?
I scamper to the cabinets on the back wall and retrieve a basic cleaning and suture kit, along with a pair of latex gloves. Keeping my back to him, I say, “I didn’t catch your name, Mr.…”
I spin around, carrying the supplies, and bump directly into his solid chest.
Ooof. This man is a brick wall.
Supplies scatter to the floor. Reaching for the tools at the same time, our heads collide and we apologize in unison.
“I’m sorry?—”
“I’m so sorry?—”
Heat floods my face. His infectious laughter fills the tiny examination room and warms me to my toes, my shock and embarrassment dissipating as a smile creeps onto my lips. “What’s so funny?”
He stands, lifting the tray. “Nothing. It’s just— I’ve never had such a poor first impression with someone in my life. First the car, my faulty shirt, now this. I think I owe you another apology.”
His hand brushes mine as he passes over the tray. I nearly jolt at the touch. “To be fair, the car was your driver’s fault. The shirt was the giver’s muck-up. And this is just my usual clumsiness. Nothing to apologize for. So, tell me more about this sweet girl.”
“I found her wandering on the side of the road. That’s about all I know. Seeing the condition she was in, I couldn’t just leave her.”
Despite my resistance, his gentle tone draws my eyes to his.
He smiles, and a singular dimple appears on the left side of his lips. His dark, closely shaven scruff is just enough to give his face an accented stubble.
I clear my throat. “Well, thank you for doing that. Most people wouldn’t bother.”
“I’m not most people.”
My ears heat. Look away. Look away.
I slip on my gloves and pat down the dog’s back.
A mass of hair comes loose. Common with dogs under stress.
I examine her. She’s underfed and dehydrated, with an old wound around her neck—probably from a too-tight collar—and one minor cut on the hind leg.
No stitches required. “You’re a bit worse for wear, but we’ll get you taken care of, girl. ”
The man leans forward across the table and says, “I’m Griffin Ford, by the way.” His hand juts out in front of me.
I stare at his hand like it’s a foreign object, hesitant to touch him. The few minor brushes our bodies have encountered have sent near bolts of electricity down my spine. I don’t know if I can survive a full-blown handshake.
Instead, I hand him the microchip scanner. “Ashton Reid. Nice to meet you. If you don’t mind, can you scan between the dog’s shoulder blades? You’ll want to touch the fur with the scanner and rotate it around.” I indicate how. “Just press that button until you hear a beep.”
“Sure.” His voice sounds baffled, but he does as I instructed.
I open the wound-cleaning kit and set about the task of cleaning the cut on the back leg, ignoring our closeness and his delicious cedar scent.
“We found her a couple of miles from here. You were the closest animal facility.”
“Because you’re in a hurry?”
“Caught that, did you?” His smile never diminishes. “A slight hurry. A minor over-exaggeration by my father.”
My head bolts up. “Father?” That’d explain the similar good looks, but judging from the other man’s air of authority, I’d have guessed his…boss? Manager?
“He also happens to be my agent.”
There it is.
“And he has a propensity toward keeping a tight schedule.”