CHAPTER 1

Present Day

 

EMERY

 

“I’m Emery Matheson, and I will tame your pussy.” I shot my signature grin into the dark lens, the large green screen glowing behind me.

Steve poked his head around the camera man and squinted his eyes.

“Can I get a little more feeling behind that?” he asked seriously. “I really need to believe that you’re going to tame my pussy.”

My lips twitched as I fought a smile. I had no idea how he could say that with a straight face. Adjusting the fluffy Himalayan in my arms, I squared my shoulders and repeated the line, this time with a little more feeling.

Steve seemed satisfied. “That’s a wrap, guys. I’ll see you all at the location on Monday morning.”

Everyone started to disperse as I gently placed Princess back in her kennel. Her blue eyes peered back at me and I felt a niggling of guilt knowing she’d be going back to the animal shelter. She’d spent the past two days on the set, being passed from person to person without one complaint.

The local shelter had allowed us to use her for our latest promotional shoot in exchange for a donation. Honestly, I would’ve given them the money either way. I had a soft spot for all the animals that sat there for months waiting to be adopted.

But Princess wouldn’t have any trouble finding a home. She was beautiful, docile, and sweet.

“Bye,” I whispered, giving her one last scratch under the chin.

We were gearing up for the first shoot of season three. The cable channel we worked for—Night Time Television—was only a few years old and instantly popular. And The Pussy Tamer was the network’s most popular show.

The idea was genius—a late-night reality show that targeted a predominantly female audience by combining cute, flawed animals and an attractive man who dedicated his life to fixing them. Filled with humor, heart, and sexual innuendo, it was the perfect recipe for success.

A panicked-looking guy scurried by as he yammered into his headset about technical issues with his sound equipment. Several caterers refreshed the sandwich spread on a nearby table. The amount of manpower that went into production behind the scenes never ceased to amaze me. There were assistant producers, stylists, lighting specialists, caterers, the camera crew.

And I was the center of it all.

People constantly buzzed around me, asking if I needed anything. Powdered my face when it got shiny. Made sure my hair wasn’t out of place. If it was too hot, someone found a fan. Too cold, and they turned up the heat.

The only person who didn’t seem overly concerned about my well-being was Steve.

“Hey, you got a sec?” I called to my producer as he walked by. He didn’t look up from his phone but motioned at me like he was listening. “I want to do some kind of promotion for the shelter. I was thinking we could feature some of the animals at the end of every episode. Maybe gain some interest—”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he cut me off, obviously distracted. “I’ll get someone on that.”

God, he was such a dick. A dick I owed everything to, but still a dick.

I’d come a long way from the lanky, broke-as-a-joke guy Steve found cleaning kennels two years ago. In my time as The Pussy Tamer, I’d traveled all around the country, made more money than I ever thought possible, and most importantly, I had made a difference in people’s lives.

Nothing felt better than getting letters and pictures from the families I helped.

Well, almost nothing.

A few months ago, I’d acquired my vet tech certification—paid for by the show. I wasn’t a doctor—yet—but I was one step closer to my goal.

The producers had said they wanted me to have adequate medical training, and I couldn’t agree fast enough. It eliminated the need for them to hire a tech, and now I was able to do basic exams and administer certain medications when needed.

“You ready for this next one?” Rhonda, my favorite assistant producer, handed me the information packet on the next client. “It’s a lot different than anything we’ve done before. Steve says it’ll be the most dramatic season yet.”

“I’m always ready,” I replied, shooting her a cocky grin. “And doesn’t he say that every time?”

“Just wait till you check out the specs on this project.” Wrapping both hands around my bicep, she let out an impressed whistle. “Look at these arms.”

“Thanks. The personal trainers have been kicking my ass for the last two months. I’m ready for a cheeseburger.”

Lifting my T-shirt, she lightly slapped my stomach. “I’d say you deserve one. That’s a nice eight-pack you’ve got there.”

Although she admired my body, her interest wasn’t the least bit sexual.

Rhonda was in her mid-forties and she used to do semi-professional body building in her younger days. Although she claimed she was too old for it now, fitness was still a big part of her life. She had a short, no-nonsense hairstyle and an intimidating personality to match. Sometimes she was a bit of a drill sergeant, other times she was a mother hen.

It was what made her so good at her job. Everyone knew one thing: You don’t fuck with Rhonda.

Adjusting the stack of folders in her arm, she took a giant gulp from her Starbucks coffee cup. The team had a long night ahead. I almost felt bad about the fact that I got to go home while everyone else had to prepare for the shoot.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help with around here?”

That earned a stern glare. “Go home, Emery. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

“All right. Don’t work too hard.”

“You know I always do,” she replied before chasing down one of the camera men.

Holding onto the Manila folder, I headed for the exit. The heavy door swung open, and I took a deep inhale of the cool fall air as I left the studio.

Sunsets were hard to see in Chicago, but an orange glow emitted from behind the skyscrapers, matching the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves at the park in the distance. The city skyline was beautiful—there was nothing like it—but it was a lot different from where I spent my first twenty-two years.

For a second, old memories seeped in. The sound of crashing waves, the smell of the sea, and the gritty sand between my toes as I watched the bright orb sink below the horizon.

Living just an hour away from the beach had been my favorite part about growing up in South Carolina. The roots I often longed for were still planted there, an invisible tie that would always pull me back.

As I strode across the parking lot, that longing grew until it felt like an anvil in my chest.

I pushed it down.

Raking a hand through my hair, I shook myself from the reverie of the life I left behind as the gravel crunched under my boots. Being homesick seemed to be a regular occurrence these days, but it wasn’t on my agenda tonight.

Instead, I focused on the new haircut I’d gotten yesterday.

The stylists had finally decided to do away with the man bun. At first, I was excited. I missed having short hair. But they left it longer on top, then put a shit-ton of product in it to make it look ‘wild and effortlessly sexy.’ Judging by the thirty-five minutes it took to get it just right, it was anything but effortless.

Some of the light-brown locks fell in front of my eyes and I growled. I shoved them back, but the persistent chunks blocked my vision again.

Fuck this. Maybe I’d see if they would let me buzz it off.

Just as I reached my Range Rover, my phone started ringing, and I let out an annoyed groan when ‘unknown caller’ flashed across the screen. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but I felt like I could use the entertainment today.

“Hello?”

“Can you tame me, big boy?” A deep purr came through the speaker.

A dude this time. Interesting.

“Sorry, man. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“You don’t hear me barking, do you? I bet I could make you purr.” He gave a shrill meow.

Snickering, I fastened my seatbelt. “Tell ya what—I’ll make an exception this time. You pick up a pizza, I’ll get the beer. Meet me at my place in thirty minutes.”

Several beats of silence followed as my prank caller processed the fact that I’d called his bluff.

How sad was it that I kind of hoped he’d say yes? That I was willing to hang out with a complete stranger because I was so desperate for company? Anything sounded better than going back to my empty condo.

“I’ll even chip in for a pay-per-view,” I added to sweeten the deal. “What’ll it be? UFC, hockey, porn…?”

I heard frantic whispering on the other end, catching snippets here and there.

…actually wants me to come over.

Are you fucking serious…?

…he said porn…

Hang up! Hang up!

They didn’t bother responding to my invitation and the line went dead.

Sighing, I dropped my phone into the cup holder. Guess it was time to change my number again.

At first the prank calls, sexual offers, and the occasional dirty pic had been flattering. But after a while it became annoying.

They didn’t really want to talk to me.

They wanted the guy I played on TV, just like all the women I’d tried to date since starting the show. Back when I was literally scooping shit for a living, girls weren’t exactly fighting for my attention. The instant fame from the show had made me a sex icon overnight.

And I’d dated them all—vapid, shallow, greedy, desperate. Some wanted my money, others wanted bragging rights.

All I wanted was someone I liked talking to. Someone to come home to at night. Someone who wanted me for me.

I’d always preferred the comfort of a relationship over the excitement of a passing fling.

I couldn’t seem to find it.

Maybe my standards were too high. Or maybe dating was just awful in general.

First, you had to meet someone. Then you had to be mutually attracted to each other. And that was the easy part. If, by chance, you hit it off, then you had to get to know each other.

Then came the questions.

Is she nice? Is she honest?

What if I come on too strong? What if she’s too eager?

When can we hang out at my place instead of going to a fancy restaurant?

Does she like cats? If the answer is no, automatic deal breaker.

And after jumping through all those hoops, what if we figured out it still wasn’t working?

So after a year of models, groupies, and reality stars trying to get to the top, I gave up on trying to find the emotional connection I craved. Decided to concentrate on my career instead. I was fine on my own. Besides, I traveled too much to maintain a relationship.

And the best part about keeping to myself? The tabloids had no scandals to report. A while back, one magazine falsely claimed I was doing steroids to stay in shape, but compared to some of the stories they made up about people, that was nothing.

My condo building came into view in the distance, the shiny black exterior extending fourteen floors up. The last glimmer of daylight reflected off the pristine glass windows.

When I drove into the parking garage beneath the building, I got the same feeling of unfamiliarity I always did. The fancy high-rise had been home for almost a year, but it seemed like I would never get used to the luxurious lifestyle.

The bowtie-wearing concierge greeted me with a nod as I walked through the lobby.

“How’s it hanging, Charles?”

“Very good, sir,” he replied the same dry response as always.

Maintaining the utmost professionalism was his thing, but it didn’t stop me from trying to get him to crack. I’d been trying to get a reaction—any reaction—out of my doorman for months and, so far, I’d failed miserably.

I swung my keyring around my finger and stopped in front of the marble countertop. “What do you say? Drinks after your shift? I’ve got a bottle of Jack and Netflix. I’ll even let you pick the show.”

Not even a ghost of a smile. “Sorry, sir. I’ll have to politely decline.”

“All right, all right. I’ll break out the big guns, just this once—I’ll chip in for some pay-per-view porn,” I joked.

It was the second time in less than thirty minutes that I’d tried to entice someone to my place with the promise of porn. I had officially reached a new low.

Apparently, Charles didn’t think my joke was funny because the frown lines around his mouth deepened. “I’m afraid I have prior obligations.”

Aaaand also the second time getting turned down.

“You’re a tough crowd.” Tapping the counter twice, I strolled away and called, “But one of these days, Charlie, you won’t be able to say no.”

The elevator took me up to the fourteenth floor, opening into the penthouse.

Gleaming stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops greeted me in the kitchen. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the living room wall offered a priceless view of the darkening sky. Fluffy orange clouds floated just above the horizon, throwing some much-needed color onto my bare white walls.

I’d meant to add some decorations after I moved in, but never got around to it. The neutral color scheme of whites, grays, and dark tones made the open floor plan feel masculine, yet terribly impersonal.

My keys landed on the island with a clank as I headed for the fridge. I popped open a beer, then sat down on the black leather couch with the client profile to do some research and preparation for the upcoming job.

Taking a long drink, I scanned the front page.

In bold letters, the main issue was listed: Cat hoarder (owner of nine cats)

The second page was a questionnaire we had clients fill out to get a good feel for who we were dealing with. The messy chicken-scratch handwriting was just barely legible.

Name: Estelle Winters

Occupation: Owner/seamstress at Estelle’s Costume Shop

Hobbies: Working, reading, and spending time with my cats

Fears: Flying on planes. Ending up alone.

It sounded like this woman didn’t get out much. I pictured a little old lady curled up on her recliner on a Friday night, hiding from the world under a pile of books and cats. If you asked me, that was no way to live.

I made a note in the sidebar to have a therapist on hand. Sometimes the owners were a bigger problem than the cats.

During the two seasons we’d filmed, I’d dealt with all kinds of feline problems. Aggression. High anxiety. Going to the bathroom in all the wrong places.

But we’d never had a cat hoarder. Rhonda was right. This was a whole different ballgame, and I wasn’t equipped to handle human mental instability.

I flipped to the next page and almost choked on my beer when my eyes landed on the location at the bottom: Remington, South Carolina.

No fucking way.

Excitement made my heart pound as I read it again in disbelief. Turning the page over, I scanned the detailed itinerary to make sure there wasn’t some mistake.

No mistake.

I was going home.

I knew the name of that costume shop sounded familiar. When I was a kid, I used to get all my Halloween gear from Estelle’s. That was many years ago, but I faintly recalled the eccentric elderly woman who owned it. She loved clowns and always smelled like lemons.

I sent a text to my sister.

 

Me: Hey, looks like I’ll be in town for a few weeks on a shoot.

 

Her response was immediate.

 

Nikki: Omg!!! No way! Lizzie is going to be so excited to see you.

 

I smiled when I thought about my five-year-old niece.

 

Me: Tell her Uncle E will be there in three days.

Nikki: Eek! Text me as soon as you get here.

Me: Will do. Have you seen Dad lately?

Nikki: Last weekend.

Me: And?

 

While I waited for her to respond, I flipped through some old pictures on my phone.

There were several from last Christmas. Lizzie on my shoulders while she held a red stocking. My sister and her husband, Tom, opening the new dinnerware set I got for them. My dad wearing his blue ballcap and a faraway smile.

All the pictures had one thing in common—the background of the assisted living home where my dad lived in the dementia/Alzheimer’s unit.

He’d been at Windsor Lakes Retirement Home for six years now, and it was worth every penny.

And I’d given them a lot of my pennies.

Using my college fund to pay for the upscale medical facility wasn’t a decision I’d made on a whim. Neither was getting a shitty job and moving into the shitty studio apartment where I lived for three shitty years.

To say Nikki had been pissed about my sacrifice was an understatement, but I didn’t regret a thing. The decision had been simple for me—I was able to help him, so I did.

Luckily, money wasn’t something I had to worry about anymore.

 

Nikki: He was having a bad day. The nurses were talking about starting him on a new medication. I’m visiting him tomorrow.

Me: Don’t mention me coming back.

Nikki: You know I won’t. So have you applied for vet school yet?

 

I rolled my eyes because she was always hounding me about that. No matter how old we got, she couldn’t seem to snap out of big-sister mode.

Every year she gave me a calendar with certain dates filled in. Important birthdays, days she thought I should ask off for vacation—which I usually didn’t do—and all the cutoff dates for class signups.

It was obnoxious, but as much as I liked to complain about her nitpicking ways, I didn’t mind it. Felt nice to have someone care about me, even if I didn’t get to see her very often. What she didn’t seem to understand was that I couldn’t just walk into a college, even if I was somewhat famous. There were prerequisites and an application process. I had to get accepted first.

 

Me: That’s not until next fall. As in, almost a year from now. I think I have time.

Nikki: Just making sure you don’t forget.

Me: I’m a grown man who happens to own a kitten calendar, thanks to you.

Nikki: Ha-ha. You love it. Text me when you get settled. We can meet for dinner and you can tell me all about vet school. Vet school. VET SCHOOL.

Me: Relentless.

 

Shaking my head, I drained the rest of my beer.

Another text came through.

 

Nikki: I just want you to be happy.

Me: I am.

 

It wasn’t a complete lie.

My life hadn’t turned out the way I’d imagined, but I couldn’t say I was unhappy. For me, working with animals and successfully resolving difficult situations was what gave me satisfaction. Contentment had become about being good at my job, providing for my dad, and rebuilding my college fund.

And I was totally kicking ass in all areas.

Satisfied and content—that was good enough. True happiness was rare for me, but as I thought about the hoarding case and the challenge it would bring, I felt a flicker of the emotion.

I was going to kick ass at this too.

Going back to my pictures, I kept scrolling and paused when I came to the sunset on the beach—the one I’d taken the day before I moved to Chicago. Before I realized I was making the best decision of my life.

Filled with uncertainty, I sat on that beach for hours, letting the sand slip through my fingers while I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

It was the right thing.

I took a chance, and it paid off. If knowing my dad was healthy and cared for came at the price of missing home, I’d choose it every time.

But I guess I wouldn’t have to miss South Carolina for much longer.