Chapter 2 #2
I don't do this. I don't get distracted by men with broad shoulders and wounded eyes and control issues that mirror my own in ways I'm not ready to examine.
I came to Grizzly Ridge because Ryan Cole's wife told me this K9 program needed help, and because I needed to be somewhere far away from New Hampshire while the federal investigation into my parents' operation reaches its conclusion.
I need to focus. I need to be professional.
I climb into my car and sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel. Scout jumps into the passenger seat, circles twice, and lies down with her chin on my thigh. I scratch behind her ear.
"We're here to work," I tell her. "That's it."
Scout's dark eyes look up at me with an expression that manages to be both sympathetic and skeptical. A Malinois who judges you with her eyebrows. I love this dog more than I've loved any human being, and that says something about my life that I don't want to look at too closely right now.
I start the engine and pull back down the gravel drive. In my rearview mirror, Stephen Nelson is standing exactly where I left him, my book in one hand, watching me go.
He looks like a man who just realized his perimeter has been breached.
Good. Because mine has too.
The drive into Grizzly Ridge takes twelve minutes.
The town opens up at the base of the valley like something from a postcard that forgot to be fake.
A main street with actual businesses. A diner with a handwritten specials board in the window.
A general store with baskets of produce out front.
Mountains pressing in from every direction like they're holding the whole place in their palms.
I check into the Mountain Haven Inn. Carol at the front desk gives me Room 12 and tells me it has the best mountain view. I thank her, carry my single duffel and Scout's travel crate upstairs, and sit on the edge of the bed.
My phone has three notifications.
Mom:
Your father wants to know if you're coming to Thanksgiving. Doesn't matter what's happening with the investigation. You're still family.
I stare at it until the screen goes dark.
Still family. Like family is something that exists separate from what they did.
Like I can sit across a table from my father and carve a turkey while thirty-seven breeding dogs live in concrete runs fifteen feet from his back door, and pretend the federal subpoena in my bag doesn't exist.
Agent Daniels:
Confirming September 18 deposition. Your testimony is critical to this case, Ms. Brooke. Please confirm receipt.
I type back: Confirmed.
The third message is from my publisher.
Greta:
Second book proposal due end of month. How's the research going? Everyone here is excited about the new material.
The second book. The one I'm supposed to be writing about advanced trauma recovery protocols for working dogs. The one that requires field research with an active K9 program, which is why I'm here, which is the professional reason I gave everyone including myself.
It's true. It's just not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I needed to be three thousand miles from my parents' property when I testify against them via video link.
I needed to be somewhere that doesn't smell like kennel disinfectant and guilt.
I needed to be working with dogs that are being trained by someone who cares, even if his methods need adjustment, because the alternative is sitting in my apartment in Burlington replaying every time I walked past those kennel runs as a teenager and said nothing.
I lie back on the bed. Scout jumps up and settles against my side, her angular head on my stomach.
"Three weeks," I tell the ceiling. "We do the work. We help the dogs. We don't fall for the tragically handsome mountain man with ocean-colored eyes and control issues."
Scout exhales through her nose. It sounds like doubt.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Unknown Number:
It's Nelson. Got your number from Sawyer. I read the first chapter. You're not wrong about cortisol recovery windows. Seven a.m. Don't be late.
I read it three times. Then I save his number and type back:
Me:
I'm never late.
I set the phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. Behind my lids, I see sea-green eyes going dark as they dropped to my mouth. I feel the heat of him close enough to touch. I hear his voice, gone rough, asking me if I do that with every dog.
My hand drifts to my stomach where Scout's head rests. I press my palm flat and breathe.
Three weeks. That's all this is.
I have a program to consult on, a book to research, and a family to testify against. I don't have room for a man who trains dogs like he's punishing himself and looks at me like I'm something dangerous.
Even if dangerous is exactly what he feels like.
Even if I haven't felt this kind of pull toward another person in years, and the reckless, hungry part of me that I keep locked down tight is already wondering what his hands would feel like on my skin.
I roll onto my side and bury my face in Scout's neck.
Tomorrow. Seven a.m. Professional. Focused.
I can absolutely do that.