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)
Interesting and complicated.
The more I learn, the more I want to know, and that’s not good. It shows the lack of excitement in my life.
Hanging out with him feels more interesting than a lonely bath at home, though. The bar is so low it’s basically a flooring pipe.
But it doesn’t mean anything.
Yet I still find myself leaning forward, my body language open. Tell me more.
Maybe by the end of the night, he’ll spill some dark secret that would bring his family’s entire empire crashing down.
Or maybe he’ll offer me a ride home on a unicorn, but a girl can dream.
He gives me that sharp, spearing glance again, like he’s looking at the most interesting woman in the world.
“You really do love animals, don’t you?”
I blink. “I mean, that’s kinda a given, considering where I work. With you, it’s more interesting because you don’t have to love them to make rent. Where does it come from if you didn’t have any pets, growing up?”
“I was big into greyhound races when I was young. My grandfather’s hobby. He’d take me out to the tracks pretty often. He’d usually lose a bundle on his bets, but he loved it to death. I loved hanging out with dogs on the side, and Gramps had the weight to get us VIP access. My mother hated me when I kept begging her to open a racetrack in Seattle three Christmases in a row, even after Gramps was gone. I wanted her to name it after him.”
Oof. That’s a big, heaping ask I can’t begin to imagine. The kind that only comes with money. But it’s also an adorable one for a little rich boy.
“Oh wow. Greyhounds are fascinating. We have a couple who come to the clinic.” I don’t have to fake my enthusiasm.
Too many people think these gentle giants are ugly with their lanky bodies and oversize snouts, and it pisses me off all the time. Especially when you’ll never meet a bigger sweetheart in your life than a lazy lump of a retired racing dog.
He takes another drink, but the warmth in his eyes fades as he looks past me, into the distance. “Honestly, I think my interest truly took hold later.”
“What did? Your crush on greyhounds?”
“Dogs in general.” He meets my eyes, and they’re serious. “I did a few years in the US Army. Mostly my father’s idea, to make me fly right and keep me out of trouble. It was trouble, all right, but fuck getting into that.”
I bite my lip so I don’t smile.
“Anyway, I wound up in Syria at a really chaotic time,” he says.
The confession stuns me a little. I never would’ve guessed he’s an army vet, but that helps explain the Instagrammable physique. Another piece of the Brady Pruitt puzzle I don’t know what to do with yet.
How much trouble was he in? Men like him don’t usually serve abroad. They don’t give up time and risk their neck for their country if they don’t have to.
“Surprised?” he asks. “Can’t say I blame you. Money shields you from a lot of bullshit in life. In my case, I’m glad it didn’t here. I had a lot to learn when I was nineteen.”
“That’s a wake-up call, for sure,” I admit. “What does it have to do with dogs, though?”
“A brave K-9 attached to our unit saved my life.” His voice grows serious. A bit low, slightly gritty, like the memory burns his throat coming out.
I can relate.
Some memories just do that to you. They burrow through your grey matter with hooks and claws, and every time you rake them out from the back of your mind, they draw blood.
But it’s not always bitter. There’s some sweetness too. And I can see it in the way he smiles.
Not with his mouth, but this tiny, half-hidden light swirling in his blue eyes.
My stomach flips. I’m suddenly worried it’s not just the espresso martini making my cheeks heat.
Oh boy.
“There was a small town outside our base. The people were good to us, always sending intel about terrorists, so we protected them. One day on our routine patrols, there was a hidden improvised explosive.” He pauses, watching how I stare before his eyes return to his drink. “I had no clue—my unit would’ve walked right into the damn thing if we didn’t have Oscar with us. Big old Belgian Malinois, friendly as hell off duty, more focused than a lot of people when he worked.” He smiles. “Oscar smelled the bomb, and if he hadn’t . . .” He trails off, but I can fill in the gaps.
“So scary,” I say softly.
“It’s what lit a fire under my ass. Dogs aren’t toys. They’re real companions. Sometimes, they save your life. That’s why I’m pouring energy into my current project. Working on a good, organic dog food that doesn’t cost more than the processed stuff. I want dogs like Oscar to eat well and live as long as possible.”