Chapter 7: A False Start: Chapter 7

The little dog looks like shit. He’s sedated because he was shaking far too hard to take a proper X-ray. I run my palm over his small skull while Mira takes pictures of the obvious broken leg. He’s in rough shape, in more ways than one. Yes, the leg is broken, but his matted coat is worse than I’ve ever seen, and when I get my fingers beneath that layer of wool, all I can feel is bones.

This is not a well-loved dog. He’s either lost or abandoned, according to Mira, who takes the entire scene in with perfect serenity.

The bridge of my nose stings and tears well in my eyes.

“Why are you crying? He’s going to be okay. I can fix this.” She stares up at the scans hanging on the back-lit board. The leg is shattered.

“I just feel bad for him.”

Mira shrugs with her hands affixed to her hips, still assessing the imaging. “I feel happy that I can save him.”

I sniffle. That’s one way to look at it. Plus, Mira is kind of robotic with some of this stuff. Seeing suffering up close still tugs at my heart strings. Maybe I’m projecting.

“Go tell Griff that the dog will survive but I’m going to have to amputate the leg.”

I blink rapidly and smooth a hand over the dirty little body.

“Then you can scrub in and help me.”

“Do you think he’s still here?” The guy seems like a dick. My money is on that he left to cowboy it up, or whatever he does.

Mira nods matter-of-factly, like there’s no question in her mind that he’s still out there, and then disappears through the doors into the surgical area to prepare. With just the two of us on site and it not being a scheduled surgery day, we’ll have to make do. It means we both pitch in.

I let my hand linger gently on the dog’s emaciated body, sucking in a centering breath before I head back out to the waiting area.

Mira called it. Griffin is still here, sitting in a chair, legs spread wide, elbows propped on his knees with his head hung low. All curled in on himself, like the weight of what he’s carrying on his shoulders is more than he can take.

His head snaps up, dark mysterious eyes meeting mine without flitting away. He hasn’t properly held my eye since that night, since before he knew who I was, and I find my steps faltering under the weight of his gaze.

He’s so fucking hot. He oozes masculinity. It leaks out of his pores and the effect on me is heady. There’s no doubt I have a crush on my brother’s friend. And I almost want to laugh at it.

“He’s going to be okay.” My voice breaks as I swallow my emotions—something I’ve become adept at over the last couple of years. I gave up being the broken, angry little girl in favor of setting a nice, normal life up for myself. “But we’re going to operate. Mira says that hind leg is too damaged to keep.”

“Amputation?” The brim of his hat shadows his heavy brow and strong nose, making it hard to see his expression.

“Yeah.” I twiddle my hands in front of myself, like a nervous little schoolgirl, not sure what else to say. He’s so intense right now that he almost makes me nervous. Smoldering, I can handle. Silent treatment, got that too. But this guilt-ridden body language has me off-kilter. He looks like he could use a friend right now.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly as I come to crouch before him.

“Mhm.” He nods, dropping his head again as his calloused fingers knit together between his knees.

“Okay. Um… do you want me to call you when he’s done?”

He shakes his head without looking back up at me. “I’ll wait.”

I blink again, but this time it’s not to chase away the tears. It’s because I almost can’t believe my own ears. For some reason, I didn’t expect that reaction.

Without thinking, my palm falls over his hands. Like I just know he could use a gentle touch. God knows he’s not being gentle with himself right now. “Hey, we got this. He looks like he’s been on his own for a while. This isn’t on you. Accidents happen.”

He just grunts in response.

But he doesn’t shrug my touch away.

I walk up to the clinic with a smile on my face. The sun is out. The birds are chirping. Life is good. I’m tired from checking up on the dog throughout the night, but I have my coffee mug in hand. I bounce up the low-slung stairs to the wraparound porch that meets the front entryway.

Something moves, and I jump. Spilled coffee burns against my hand.

“Ah!” One hand thumps against my chest when Griffin unfolds his long limbs from one of the wicker chairs on the front porch. “You couldn’t have said hi before springing up on me like that?”

His lips flatten out and his eyes roll beneath the shadow of his brim.

“I saw that.” Moving past him and his wordless ways, I slide a key into the front door and almost miss the quiet, “Hi,” from behind me.

The alarm beeps as I enter the code and flick the lights on.

“How’s the dog?” Griffin’s boots thump on the floor as he follows behind me.

“Good. I’ve been checking on him all night. He seems groggy, but fine. Wanna see him?”

His hands shoved in his pockets, stance wide, he nods at me as I drop my stuff at the front desk.

“Come on back then.” I wave him along as he tails me. “Good morning, little pupper,” I coo toward the metal crate at the back of the exam space. He sits up unsteadily, little head quirking as we approach. And the closer we get, the more excited he becomes. He’s up and wagging, pressing a small black nose through the holes in the crate’s door.

“He’s bald,” Griffin’s rusty voice cuts through the room.

“Yeah. We had to shave him down. He was one big knot and crawling with fleas. Definitely has had no one taking care of him for a while.”

“He’s standing.” Griffin walks closer, staring at the little dog with concern etched on his face.

“Nothing gets by you, does it?” He glares at me, and I try not to laugh. “So, dogs don’t really feel sorry for themselves. Not how we do. They just make the best of their situation and carry on. Luckily, they rebound pretty quickly after losing a hind leg.”

Griffin grunts and steps next to me, my body humming with awareness as he draws close. He holds one hand up to the door of the crate, letting the excited dog lick at his skin.

I smile at the sight. “He knows you saved him.”

“I didn’t save him. I hit him.”

I lift a shoulder. “You could look at it that way. Or you could look at it like he threw himself in your path because he needed help. And you helped him.”

His eyes shift down to where I stand beside him. “Young enough for rose-colored glasses, eh?”

I arch a brow and cross my arms. I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of wearing rose-colored glasses in my life. The young bit? Well… he must have had a real fucking shame spiral when he put the pieces together about who I am. But rose-colored glasses? I almost laugh. I’ve lived with shit-colored glasses most of my life, until I to take them off and stop things happen to me.

“Old enough to choose the color of glasses I wear. Thanks.”

I turn to make the no-name dog his breakfast and cocktail of medication.

“Why don’t you t-talk to that way?” The motion of him turning away catches my eye.

“Him?”

He hesitates, and I swear his cheeks pick up a little color. “Barbie Doll Boy.”

I laugh, measuring out a syringe of anti-inflammatories. “You mean Ken Doll?”

“Whatever.” His fingers press through the cage.

“You can let him out.” I mix the small serving of wet food and pills together, hoping he’s the type of dog that won’t pick them up and spit them out. “And I don’t know what you mean.”

“He shouldn’t say shit like that to you.” God, he’s so vague. I’m pretty certain he means the riding comment, which was so fucking cringey. But I refuse to agree with him. My pride won’t let me.

“Thanks for the input. I’ll keep that in mind on our next date,” I add, because fuck this guy for telling me what to do.

with our history. I have one big brother, and I don’t need another.

I slide the bowl across the floor toward the waggling rat-like dog that Griffin just freed from the crate, and he dives straight in. Poor thing has got to be starving, but we can only start with small meals.

When I stand back up, Griffin’s eyes are fixed on the bowl and the quiet grunting noises coming from the dog. “He doesn’t deserve a next date.”

My eyes narrow at him. “Drop it, okay? I didn’t ask for your opinion. You gave me your opinion of me two years ago and that was quite enough, thanks. Accident? Mistake? Whatever. I heard you loud and clear.” I rub clammy hands over my scrubs before crossing them over my body like a shield.

“Just looking out for my friend’s little sister.”

I bark out a disbelieving laugh.

“Is that what you did that night in the bathroom? Looked out for me?”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

He grunts. “Didn’t know who you were.”

I click my tongue, disappointed in what a chickenshit the guy who grabbed me and owned me is being right now. “Pussy.”

“Nadia.” His tone is a warning, but I’ve heard worse. Griffin Sinclaire does a lot of things to me, but scaring me isn’t one of them. “I’m thirty-five years old. You’re barely legal. We c—shouldn’t even be talking about this. You need to forget it.”

I roll my eyes.

What is this, a porno?

When you’ve lived through the shit I have, age is just a number on a birth certificate. I feel like I’ve lived a few lives. Reinvented me. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, what the hell do you have in common with normal, happy people your own age?

I pack away the food and medications, silently eyeing the small dog limping around the bowl clumsily, sniffing and searching for more.

When I finish, I catch Griffin’s dark eyes tracing my body. They drop to my lips and the hair on my arms immediately stands up. It unnerves me how attuned to him my body is.

In an attempt to recover, I plaster a practiced smirk on my lips. “Thanks for the input. I don’t think I will. Forget about it, that is. I actually enjoy replaying that night in my head.”

His jaw clenches, that one muscle jumping as his arms cross before him. He looks so fucking grumpy, I almost laugh. “Don’t be a brat.”

Everything about his body language is tightly wound, feral almost. Except his eyes when he hit that word.

Those are pure scorching smolder.

And they tell a completely different story.

I wink at him, watching his tense body rear back like I just slapped him. “But why? Why stop when I can tell you like it so much?” And then I head back out front to open the clinic for the day.

He’s right that I shouldn’t let Tommy talk to me the way he did, but I’m not about to let him do it either.

Griffin Sinclaire can’t ruin my good mood with his growly bullshit. My first riding lesson is this afternoon. I’m checking things off my to-do list and experiencing everything life offers whether or not he likes it.