Chapter 3
PEYTON
By mid-afternoon, my entire understanding of Warrick had flipped upside down.
The man I’d pegged as a cold, calculating landlord—the one who’d shown up yesterday threatening lease violations—had spent the last six hours hauling supplies, reinforcing kennels, and quietly doing whatever needed doing without complaint.
He anticipated problems before they happened, stepping in to help overwhelmed volunteers without being asked.
He was patient with the animals, gentle even, and more than once I caught him murmuring reassurances to a frightened dog when he thought no one was watching.
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
We’d fallen into an easy rhythm somewhere around hour three, working side by side like we’d done it a hundred times before.
He handed me things before I asked for them.
I directed him to tasks that matched his skills.
We moved around each other in the cramped spaces between kennels without bumping, without awkwardness, like our bodies had figured out a language our brains hadn’t caught up to yet.
It was disorienting. And a little terrifying.
“Break time,” Warrick said, appearing at my elbow with two bottles of water. “You’ve been going nonstop since I got here.”
“So have you.”
“I’m not the one who was already here at dawn.” He pressed the water into my hand. “Drink. Sit. Five minutes.”
I wanted to argue, but my legs were already moving toward the folding chairs someone had set up near the edge of the lot.
The afternoon sun had warmed the air enough to make standing still almost pleasant, and the view of the mountains in the distance was the kind of thing postcards tried to capture and never quite managed.
Warrick sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my jacket. We drank our water in silence for a moment, watching the operation hum along without us.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Why are you really here? And don’t say volunteering. There are a hundred organizations that could use help. Why this one?”
The question caught me off guard. I took another sip of water, stalling, trying to decide how much to tell him.
“I had a dog,” I finally said. “Benny. He was a mutt—part beagle, part something else, all personality. My roommates and I adopted him together when we moved into our apartment two years ago, but he was really mine. I was the one who walked him every morning, who let him sleep on my bed, who…” I trailed off, the familiar ache rising in my chest. “He got sick. Cancer. By the time we caught it, there was nothing anyone could do.”
Warrick stayed quiet, listening.
“I was with him at the end,” I continued, my voice thicker now.
“Held him while he went to sleep. And afterward, I just… had all this love with nowhere to put it. The apartment felt empty. I felt empty.” I gestured at the rescue operation around us.
“So I started volunteering. Figured if I couldn’t save Benny, maybe I could help save someone else’s Benny. ”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was low, sincere. “That’s a hell of a loss.”
“It was.” I blinked back the moisture in my eyes. “Still is, some days. But being here helps. Seeing these dogs get a second chance—it doesn’t fix the hole, but it makes it easier to carry.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood more than I’d actually said. “You’re a good person, Peyton.”
“I’m just a person.” I laughed softly, deflecting. “A twenty-three-year-old community college student who spends her weekends covered in dog hair. Nothing special.”
“I disagree.”
The intensity in his voice made me look at him—really look. His eyes were fixed on my face with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Something warm. Something wanting.
“What about you?” I asked, trying to shift the focus. “Why are you really here? And don’t say the dogs. Yesterday, you were ready to shut this whole thing down.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said.
About helping instead of threatening.” He turned the water bottle over in his hands, not meeting my eyes.
“I’ve spent my whole life building things.
Wealth, mostly. Security. I started young because I had to—my family didn’t have much, and I swore I’d never feel that vulnerable again.
But somewhere along the way, building became protecting.
And protecting became…” He shrugged. “Hiding, maybe. Keeping everyone at arm’s length so nothing could touch me. ”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is.” He looked at me then, and the rawness in his expression stole my breath. “I didn’t realize how lonely until yesterday. Until you looked at me like I was capable of being more than the guy who owns the land.”
My heart was beating too fast. The air between us had changed, thickened with something I didn’t have a name for. Or maybe I did have a name for it, and I was just too scared to use it.
“I’ve never done this,” I heard myself say.
The words came out quiet, almost a whisper.
“Any of this. School has always come first. And before that, it was family stuff, or work, or just… life getting in the way. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve never let anyone close enough to—” I stopped, face heating. “I’ve never been with anyone.”
His eyes darkened. I watched something shift in his expression—hunger, barely leashed, fighting against restraint.
“Peyton.” My name sounded like a warning on his lips.
“I know.” I swallowed hard. “I know this is crazy. We met yesterday. You threatened to shut down my rescue operation. I don’t even live in this town. None of this makes sense.”
“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”
“So we should probably just go back to work. Pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
He reached out slowly, like he was giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers grazed my cheek, rough and warm, and I forgot how to breathe.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmured.
“Terrible,” I agreed.
“I’m twelve years older than you. I own property you’re technically trespassing on. I have a reputation in this town that I’ve spent years protecting.”
“All very good points.”
“And you’ve never—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You deserve better than someone like me.”
“What if I think you’re exactly what I deserve?” The words came out before I could stop them. “What if I want you?”
Something snapped behind his eyes. He kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate and hungry, like he’d been holding back for hours and had finally run out of willpower. His hand fisted in my hair, gently tilting my head back, and I gasped against his mouth as heat flooded through me.
I grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more of him. He groaned low in his throat, and the sound sent a shiver straight down my spine.
“Truck,” he managed between kisses. “Now.”
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. My brain had stopped working somewhere around the first touch of his lips.
He pulled me up from the chair and led me toward his pickup, parked at the far edge of the lot, away from the main operation. The windows were tinted dark. Private. My heart hammered against my ribs as he opened the back door of the extended cab and helped me inside.
The door closed behind us, and suddenly we were cocooned in silence. Just the two of us, the late afternoon light filtering through the tinted glass, and the electricity crackling between us.
His hands found my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, and kissed him again—slower this time, deeper, learning the taste of him.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said against my mouth.
I answered by reaching for the hem of my shirt. We were past the point of stopping, and we both knew it.