“C’mon, girl,” I coax gently. “You’re safe with me; I promise.”
She whimpers and lies down, and I sit on the top step, petting her head.
“Hey, Adam? Go on without us. Pig’s afraid of going down the stairs. It’s usually a half-hour affair. I’ll just—”
“Here.” Adam’s at my side in an instant, taking Piglet’s leash in his hand, swapping me for Bear’s. “You take Bear down; I’ll get Pig.”
Before I can protest, he leans down, kisses her forehead, and then stands and pats his chest. Piglet rises to her hind legs, paws on Adam’s torso, and he hoists her into his arms.
“’Atta girl,” he chimes as my mouth gapes. “Go ahead.”
I look down at Bear, and he cocks his head to the side, like he’s thinking he might want a ride too. “Not a chance, big fella.”
He huffs, then starts trotting back down the stairs. When we reach the ground, Piglet’s looking mighty smug and content in Adam’s arms.
I roll my eyes as she licks behind his ear. “You little flirt.”
Adam sets Pig down and takes his hat off, running his fingers through his tousled curls before covering them up again. “Did you drive here?”
I shake my head.
“Do you, uh…need a ride? I walked here, but I don’t live far. We could walk to my place, and I could drive you back.”
“That’s okay. The shelter isn’t far from here.”
Adam nods, glancing over his shoulder. He scratches his neck and points behind him. “Well, I’m going that way.”
I point in the opposite direction. “And I’m going that way.”
His head bobs. “Guess this is where we say good-bye.”
Now I’m the one head-bobbing. It’s so awkward. So I make it a hundred times more awkward by thrusting my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
He looks at my hand, then back up to me. At my hand again, then me. He grins, so wide, so amused, so damn smug . “A handshake, huh? So formal.”
My eyes narrow, arms going across my chest. “What do you suggest?”
He shrugs, and when he takes a step toward me, my heart jumps to my throat.
“You know, Rosie. I wasn’t having the best day when I ran into you. Or rather, when my dog tackled you to the ground. Maybe he knew what he was doing, though. Because my day got a hundred times better after you fell into it.”
He takes another step forward, and in all the panic that ensues at the thought that this handsome, kind man might actually be…flirting with me, I lose control of my body, accidentally crossing one ankle over the other and promptly tripping over my own two feet, crashing into him.
Adam chuckles in my ear, low and hearty, his breath tumbling down my neck as he holds me to him. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”
That t-word sparks something inside me, something lost and broken, and I cling to Adam as he squeezes me for a moment that ends too soon.
He gives Piglet’s chin a scratch, and with one last look in my direction, he winks at me. “See ya around, trouble.”
CHAPTER 4
I’LL TAKE THE WHOLE BOTTLE, PLEASE
ADAM
I’m dying.
Figuratively, of course. Maybe literally. Ask me again in two hours.
An ankle hooks around mine below the table, and I barely resist the urge to drag my hands down my face. I clear my throat, unhook my leg, and carefully tuck both of my feet below the safety of my chair. I take a sip of my red wine, set it down, and then pick it right back up and throw back the rest of the nine-year-old pinot noir when the tip of Alessia’s heeled foot touches mine again.
“You really like wine, huh?” she asks, blue eyes hooded, lashes batting.
“That obvious, huh?” I don’t think I’ve ever tossed back two glasses in less than ten minutes.
I need to quit this and quit it hard.
The dating, not the wine. The wine stays, the girl goes.
I don’t know why I keep thinking this one might be different, that the more time I spend out here in the dating pool, the quicker I’ll find the one. Jaxon says I’m delusional, to just enjoy the dates, take them home, and have some fun. I don’t think he and I have the same idea of fun.
Look, would I like to have sex? Obviously. It’s been over a year. I’m developing premature arthritis in my wrist, and I’ve only recently turned twenty-six. But by the time every date ends, I’d rather be subjected to a lifetime of wearing a wrist brace and giving up my career as a top-paid goalie in the NHL than spend any more time with these women.
Plus, they’re not even in it for the sex. That’s the problem a lot of guys on my team have: women who just want to say they’ve had sex with a famous hockey player.
My problem is they want more. I want more, too, but the more I want is genuine. The more they want is dollar signs.
“Oh! Hey, you!” Alessia waves down our waiter as he passes by with a tray of food. She points at the nearly empty bottle of wine. “Could we get another bottle?”
Scott lifts a brow in my direction, and when I nod, his mouth tips in a small smirk. I come here about twice a month, because Scott respects my privacy and reads my cues. He tends to my dates like royalty, and when things are looking especially grim, he tells me the chef would like to meet me. Then he shoves me out the kitchen door for a five-minute breather while he tries to speed up the rest of the dinner service.
Alessia looks around the restaurant, pouting. “We should ask him to switch our table. We’re tucked all the way in the back.”
“It’s nice back here,” I counter softly, sipping my ice water. “It’s quiet.”
Jesus, can her pout possibly get any bigger? How far out does that bottom lip go? “Barely anyone can see us back here.”
“I like my privacy,” is my simple reply. I don’t feel like getting into all the reasons why she’d rather be front and center with me.
Alessia popped into my inbox on Tinder a week ago. Her profile showed pictures of her with horses and dogs, her with her arms wrapped around her grandma in her nursing home bed, and hiking through the Appalachian Trail. She was sweet and didn’t say a whole lot, just that Bear was cute in my profile picture and that she loved hiking too. Three days ago, I asked her if she’d like to have dinner, and it’s been downhill since. The kissing emojis, the never-ending messages throughout the day asking for constant updates on what I’m doing, who I’m with. The second I saw her out front of the restaurant tonight, she threw her arms around my neck and planted her lipstick on my cheek.
I like physical contact. I like intimacy. But I want it to feel natural. Like it did earlier today when that little honey-and-rose-colored-hair cutie tripped over her own feet and tumbled into me when I told her to shove her handshake.
My mind drifts to Rosie for the hundredth time today, the easy blaze of her cheeks, the flecks of gold that danced in those light green eyes, the way she snorted when she laughed and looked so damned relieved when she thought I didn’t notice.
Everything about her was natural. Her smiles, her giggles, the timid way she kicked off her shoes and waded through the creek with me while watching the beauty around us.