Chapter 2
Emery
Why is it that there is always a traffic jam and everything seems to take longer than usual when you’ve had one of the most stressful days of your entire adult life?
I tap my foot impatiently against the concrete as I wait for the elevator in the lobby of my apartment building, willing the lift to arrive like five minutes ago.
All I want to do is get into my pj’s, pour myself a glass of wine—even though it’s only eight in the morning—heat up some leftovers, cuddle with my two dogs, and fall into bed.
My night shift at the veterinarian clinic was excruciatingly difficult.
Some Good Samaritan had found a pit bull pup lying along the side of the road.
They brought the puppy in and, upon examination, it was found to have internal injuries, likely caused by someone kicking the hell out of him, and surgery was performed.
As a surgical vet tech, I assisted Dr. Sara with the procedure to repair the dog’s spleen and then hung around an extra hour to ensure the little guy woke without complications. He was alert when he came to, which made my heart happy, but that poor dog had been fighting for his life.
I let the anger pass as I slide my hand in my pocket to fish out my keys, finding some loose dog treats in the process. You never know when you’re going to find a good pup that needs a treat.
I look over at the secure-access front door as it opens, and the silhouette of a tall man entering from the morning sunlight grabs my attention.
All I can tell is that he’s broad-shouldered, has a beanie hat on, and is carrying something large in his arms. He moves toward the elevators with purposeful strides.
His voice startles me with its brisk, agitated tone. “Is this your dog?”
He thrusts his arms toward me and I step back. My eyes dart from his face to the object he’s cradling in his arms.
A limp, sick dog.
“Oh my word,” I gasp, so startled by the sickly appearance of this animal that my face curls with horror. “No, it’s not, but it’s obviously very ill. What are you doing with it?”
He gives me a look that’s a cross between no shit, Sherlock and resigned sadness.
“I found her in a dumpster down the street.” He pauses as if to catch his breath, his words catching on the next sentence. “Tied up in a zipped suitcase.”
I gasp again, slapping my hand over my mouth to keep the scream from hurtling out.
And then all the training I’ve had and my past two years of on-the-job experience kick in, and I shift into action mode just as the elevator doors open.
At least the damned thing knows when there’s an emergency, I’ll give it that.
“I work for a vet clinic and pet rescue. Let’s bring her upstairs to my place so I can check her out.”
He nods his approval and follows me into the open lift, and I hit the button for the fifth floor.
Without any regard to personal space—my default when I’m in fix-it mode—I move in front of him and assess the dog in his arms.
“She’s severely dehydrated and lethargic.
That’s not good.” I stick my fingertips on the inside of her left elbow and check her pulse, counting the beats for fifteen seconds.
It’s weak and faint. I stroke a hand over her head, gently rubbing her ears, and let out a huff.
“Ultimately, she’ll need IV fluids to rehydrate her, but at the very least we can get her comfortable for the moment while I check her out upstairs. ”
I pull my eyes away from the pup and tip my head back to fully look at the pup’s hero.
His lips are pulled into a tight expression, and his cheeks are overheated and red—possibly from the cold outside or maybe in reaction to this situation. But his eyes are a warm, cherrywood brown and they’re framed with the darkest, longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man.
“Thanks,” he says, his features softening. “I gotta say, if I ever find the bastard who did this, I’m liable to plant my fist in their face. And my foot in their ass.”
I give an awkward chuckle. “I understand the sentiment, but maybe once we involve the police, we can leave it to them to do their jobs and keep you out of jail.”
“It would be very satisfying to catch the creep. I mean, who the hell does something like this to an innocent dog?”
“It’s clearly the work of a sociopath,” I say with a sad shake of my head.
I’ve seen it all too often in our rescue, but it’s why I do what I do.
I continue the massage of the dog’s mangled ears as she slowly opens her eyes and sniffs the air between us softly.
My fingers run underneath the rope still tied around her neck.
“We’ll get this off you in a jiff, baby girl. You just hang on.”
When we step off the elevator, I take a right, and he follows me to my door. Once I unlock it and push it open, the sounds of my own dogs’ welcoming whimpers bring me relief and comfort.
I walk over to their crates and say my hellos to Daisy and Dezi, my own two rescue pups. “Hang tight, babies. I’ll let you both out soon, I promise.”
I know they’ll be fine for a bit because my roommate Georgia has already given them breakfast and taken them outside before she left for work less than an hour ago. It gives me time while I focus on this emergency.
I throw an arm out to gesture toward my bedroom. “We can put her on my bed.”
Our eyes meet, and his are filled with questions and apprehension. Maybe he’s worried about me being alone with a strange man or hurt dog? I shrug. “It’s okay.”
As he stands there cradling the dog, I grab some towels from the linen closet and place them over my duvet. When I finish, I give him a brisk nod, and he gently sets the dog down across the makeshift padding.
And then I get to work examining for any external injuries. “Can you grab the scissors from the top drawer in my bathroom?” I point in the direction of my en suite bathroom, and he heads off while I assess the dog.
My hand roams over the pink of her belly. Her engorged teats suggest she had a litter within the last few weeks. Gritting my teeth together to keep my anger under wraps, I check her vitals, limbs, ears, mouth, and eyes.
“Here you go,” he says, handing me the scissors, handles toward me for safety. If I had time to think about it, I’d probably swoon over this devastatingly handsome—tall as a tree and those yummy eyes, all my favorites—and obviously courteous and kind man.
Instead, I concentrate on the task at hand, carefully slipping the scissors under the cord and cutting it off, then toss the piece of rope to the floor. After, I kneel close to the dog’s face, close enough that the dog licks my cheek in gratitude.
I smile and pull out a small treat, holding it up to her nose. She inspects it with a sniff and then takes it. “You’re welcome, sweet girl.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Well, I’m not a veterinarian, but I’ve seen enough sick animals to know that, while we can’t see any external injuries, she could have internal wounds.
She needs to be seen at the clinic, as well as get set up with IV fluids and the like.
” I tilt my head to look up at him. He stands with feet apart, arms crossed over his broad chest, concern etched across his face.
“I’ll call my office and let them know we’re bringing her in.
Could you stay with her while I go into the kitchen and grab a bowl of water? ”
He blanches, scanning the room as if to look for a quick exit. “Uh…I don’t know…”
I reach for his hand and ignore the zap of electricity that zings up my arm with the touch, dragging his hand down to place his palm on the dog’s chest. “Just rest your hand here and reassure her that she’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
An hour later, the police have come and gone, having taken a statement from the rescuer and left with a weak promise to search for a suspect. I’m doubtful anyone will be found and prosecuted for animal neglect and endangerment, but they’re doing their duty and that’s all we can ask.
As I wrap the dog in blankets to prepare her for transport back to the clinic, I realize that I haven’t even exchanged names with this hot stranger slash neighbor slash dog rescuer.
“I’m Emery Abbott, by the way,” I offer, extending my hand for him to shake.
He accepts it, and that same zap and crackle returns. “Shaw Benning. Tenth floor. Nice to meet you, neighbor.”
There’s something familiar about his name, but I can’t quite grasp it, which isn’t a surprise considering all that’s transpired and how exhausted I feel.
If I thought I was tired after my shift ended earlier, this new exhaustion is on a whole other level.
If it were a video game, I’d have reached the highest score and dropped dead at the pinnacle.
“Well, thanks for being this damsel in distress’s rescuer today, Shaw. You did a good deed.”
He pulls his hand back and resumes that sentry stance, biceps bulking when he folds his arms again.
It’s hard not to notice, especially since he’s taken off his running jacket and is left in one of those long-sleeved running shirts that molds to the cut of his arms, shoulders, and torso.
I blink a few times because he’s very much what they call a thirst trap. Holy moly guacamole.
“Nah, I did what anyone would do.” He looks down at the dog. “What’s going to happen to her now?”
I follow his eyes to the sleeping pit bull mix, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in a slow, easy pattern now.
“We’ll get her fixed up and then she’ll go to our shelter and wait for someone to adopt her.” I pause and then glance back at him with a meaningful look. “Unless, of course, you’d be interested?”
His eyes grow wide in alarm, hands flying up in the air as if he’s been cornered. “Oh no, not me. I travel too much… for… work.”
“Well, okay then. But you might also consider fostering her while she recovers. I’d be happy to help when you’re out of town.”
Shaw considers this for a moment and then nods. “We’ll see. I’d have to check with my roommate. But why don’t I give you my number so you can let me know how she’s doing later?”
He digs out his phone from his pocket and hands it to me to enter in my contact info. When I return the phone to his large, open palm, my fingers graze his skin. It’s nothing short of electric.
“Okay, I’ll think about it. It was nice meeting you, Emery, even under the shitty circumstances.”
He opens the front door and steps out into the hallway, turning back around before he leaves. “I’m glad it was you in the lobby this morning.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle, remembering how impatient I was that everything was taking so long. “It was pretty good timing.”
I guess it’s true what they say. Timing is really everything.