Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Great. I was so distracted I left it unlocked.
I instantly know this won’t be an easy job.
Not because of the dog but because of the people bringing it in.
They’re picture perfect, like they were built from the ground up with Olympian genes and born to make cameras smile. They look like they know their best angles better than their own names.
The man—he’s a giant.
Insanely tall with thick, dark hair pushed back off his face and flashing blue eyes that stop me in my tracks.
Pretty boy doesn’t do him justice.
Not when he’s billboard pretty, all short, trimmed beard and sculpted muscle and this big lopsided smile that suggests he’s used to getting his way.
Late twenties or early thirties, I’d guess.
Although he looks casual, dressed down in a crisp T-shirt and shorts, his outfit has that timeless quality that tells me everything he’s wearing drips money.
Not to mention the Apple Watch with the designer wristband on his arm. That gold looks real, and it’s totally not the default rubber wristband those watches come with.
There’s something else too.
The way he carries himself has an aura. Something like raw confidence except sharper, more intense—pure command, maybe.
Or maybe I’m just that helpless against staggering good looks that practically give him a glowing head like an Orthodox saint. He’s the kind of visceral handsome that punches you in the face.
Beside him, the blonde is also tall, though she barely reaches his shoulder height. Statuesque would be a good description. She has severe pouty features that look like they’ve been carved from marble by a sculptor intent on capturing resting bitchface in grim realism.
By the way she holds herself, hip out and breasts pushed up, I’m almost certain she is a model.
She’s also sneering at me before I’ve said a single word.
Bad move. It’s way too late for this kind of client.
But there’s a wiggling corgi in the man’s arms with a floppy pink tongue and sad whale eyes that say he’d rather not be here.
Me too, little guy.
I feel for the corgi. I’m already no fan of his owners, and they’ve been here for ten seconds.
Although I have to admit: The man is hot.
Like, not just a little bit hot. The blow-your-socks-off, every-woman’s-dirty-secret kind of hot. Rugged and piercing like he makes workouts and stern glares his whole personality.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
But in my experience, I know guys like him. Too good looking, made from old family fortunes and tech money. They don’t have much else to fall back on.
At least he’s smiling, though.
I can’t say the same for Miss Scowlypants.
“Hi,” I say, plastering on my own fake smile. “I’m sorry, but we just closed. If it’s an emergency, there’s a local animal hospital over in—”
“We need a quick look.” The man dials his smile up another notch while his eyes harden. Oh God. I practically need shades. “We found this little guy while we were hiking, hiding under a stack of driftwood. He seems dehydrated—he’s been panting like hell, anyway.”
Hmph.
I catch myself nodding before I can grimace. I just said we were closed, but here I am, ready to come rushing to the rescue.
Wow, he’s good.
“The air’s pure soot today. All the smoke from the wildfires,” he continues. “With the heat, I wanted to make sure his lungs are good. You know, just in case he’s having an allergic reaction or something to all this crap in the atmosphere.”
Ugh.
He has a point.
There is a lot of smoke dusting Seattle lately—a pattern that keeps repeating way too often during our summers. Today it’s that hazy, slightly grey smog hanging around that makes your nostrils burn like you’ve just inhaled seawater.
The fires up in British Columbia haven’t spread down to Washington, thank God, but the smoke has drifted south.
Usually does, but this year it’s hitting earlier and it’s lingering.
He’s also right—animals can suffer plenty from breathing it. The poor dog’s tongue is hanging out, meaning the little guy probably is dehydrated. His sides keep rising and falling with each breath, a little more than they should.
I bet he’s hungry, too, especially if they don’t know how long he was lost out there.
Blondie McScowlyface rolls her eyes like a cheerleader in a ’90s sitcom. She’s wearing winged eyeliner that looks so dramatic it practically reaches her ears.
Catlike, definitely.
It’s a look, for sure.
“She said no,” she whines, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, her voice is as grating as her sour pout. “God, Brady. Why can’t you ever take no for an answer?”
Brady, huh?
It feels oddly good to put a name to his ridiculously handsome face.
“Because I want him checked out,” Brady says firmly, flashing her a pointed look.
“Yeah, but how is this dog our problem?” She folds her arms, tapping the toe of her designer boot on the floor. “Just drop him off with animal control and be done with it.”