CHAPTER TEN
Hazel
White-knuckling my way along I-25 toward the shelter, weighed down by an accident up ahead, slow-moving traffic, and a building snowstorm, my nerves and patience were disappearing quicker than lit dynamite. So when my cell phone rang, angrily buzzing against the cup holder in the center console, I jumped and nearly skidded into the car to my right.
I glanced at the screen, my heartbeat quickening at the sight of Imogen’s number. I hadn’t received any updates about my application regarding the Denver Day of Giving event, and I hoped she was calling to deliver good news.
“Hi, Imogen, this is a pleasant surprise,” I said, flinching at the sirens wailing in the distance. This wasn’t the most professional environment—or the safest—for this conversation, but my schedule this week was jam-packed. If I didn’t hear her news now, it could be days before I had the chance to speak with her.
As it stood, I was already late for my meeting with the veterinary oncologist at the shelter that had taken me months to secure. I intended to discuss the possibility of the woman joining the Rescue Granted team of doctors who provided their services and expertise in a pro bono capacity, and if I canceled, I risked losing my chance.
“You know, Hazel, when you take my advice, you really take it!” Imogen’s laugh burst through the line.
I frowned, then it clicked. “Oh, you must be referring to the article in Sunday’s newspaper about the puppy mill raid and how Rescue Granted accepted a large portion of the dogs recovered from the bust.”
It was a small shout-out to the shelter, but a shout-out nonetheless. At this point, any attention helped. Especially because I hadn’t hired a social media intern to grow the shelter’s community engagement as I’d promised. Between Chris’s disruptive presence and my own conflicting emotions, there’d been no time for me to draft up a job description to post let alone find a suitable candidate.
“Yes, that story was certainly positive, but I’m referring to the fact that the Colorado Blizzards’ Chris Lalonde is volunteering for your organization.” Her voice went up an octave even as she’d whispered his name like some high school girl confessing at lunch that the hottest guy in the sophomore class had winked at her. But then, given the way Chris so effortlessly turned me inside out, I couldn’t really blame her.
“Oh, right, Mr. Infamous Wide Receiver,” I said, pressing down hard on the brakes and nearly hitting the bumper in front of me. My tires swerved dangerously close to the edge of my lane, and blood rushed in my ears. The fat flakes of snow dumping from the sky and sticking to the roads weren’t helping my anxiety—what had started as a light dusting was quickly morphing into a full-fledged blizzard.
“The ability to snag such a high-profile spokesman is huge, Hazel,” Imogen said, returning to her more pleasant, businesslike tone. “I can’t overstate how important visibility is these days.”
“We utilize every volunteer who comes through the doors to our advantage—Rescue Granted is understaffed as it is,” I said as traffic miraculously began to unwind. Just the feeling of accelerating calmed me.
“While Chris has many talents, his greatest asset is his celebrity. Employ it to your benefit,” she urged. “The foundation has been receiving calls all morning from people who want to see your shelter—and specifically Chris—included in the Denver Day of Giving event. Rescue Granted has officially made the short list of nonprofits for consideration.”
“Really?”
Imogen chuckled. “Hazel, Chris’s recent scandal may be bad for him professionally, but let’s be honest, to the women of Denver, he’s still the city’s hottest and most eligible bachelor. His name alone will bring in the donations. So exploit him, okay?”
Normally I’d object to such an idea, especially when the result was for my personal gain, but I decided not to bother, since Chris would probably encourage Imogen with a confident “Exploit me, baby.” Still, no matter how much Chris fed into people’s perception of him, manipulating him in that way didn’t feel right.
I finally passed the pileup that had been moved off to the shoulder and drove around the rubbernecks gawking at the scene. I got over to the right lane, and as I rounded the curve in the highway, I nearly slammed on the brakes and caused another wreck when I saw the billboard stationed at my exit.
“What the hell . . . ?” I said, not entirely convinced I wasn’t hallucinating. Or perhaps the snow was impairing my vision.
“Is everything okay?” Imogen asked, concern entering her tone.
“Everything’s fine,” I murmured, still not believing my eyes. Plastered on that billboard was a photograph of a smiling Chris Lalonde, shirtless with jeans slung low on his hips, revealing the muscles that cut down both sides of his abdomen, lying in a white fluffy bed surrounded by a dozen puppies. The only way this image gets any better is if you join us, was splashed across the top of the ad. In smaller, bold print along the bottom were the words “Rescue Granted, dog rehabilitation clinic and shelter, now accepting adoption applications.”
“Imogen, can I call you back? Something’s come up.” I promised to phone her tomorrow, then hung up and sped the remainder of the way to the shelter.
When Chris had claimed he intended to woo me, I thought he’d meant something generic and unoriginal like store-bought flowers or a singing telegram. But this? The entire city of Denver would see it, and he knew that. He was fully aware of the weight his endorsement carried, as well as the exposure it would bring to my organization.
The man had more gall and more game than I’d given him credit for. The bastard. When had he found the time to plan a shoot of this magnitude anyway? It’d been only a few days since he’d shown up with the snickerdoodle cookies. Plus, hadn’t he been busy preparing for the Blizzards’ upcoming matchup against the Saints?
I parked in the shelter’s loading zone and stormed into the office, the shrill ring of multiple phone lines greeting me. Already the billboard seemed to be working.
Chris was sitting in my chair, feet kicked up on the desk and hands linked behind his head, a smug smile on his face. His sweater was hiked up just enough to expose a tanned sliver of skin, and I attempted to glance everywhere other than at the thin line of hair that trailed beneath his belly button. Still, I swallowed, envisioning what the hard muscle would feel like against my fingertips, my lips.
Son of a bitch Quit it.
“How was the commute?” he asked, his grin growing wider. “Let me guess, you’re torn between wanting to neuter me and kiss me again. But before you settle on option A, remember the rescue puppies on the billboard.”
“I fix dogs daily, Lalonde. I’m not squeamish. Or deterred.”
And, damn, if I also wasn’t charmed.
Walking into the lobby of Rescue Granted two days later, boxes containing prescription medication stacked in my arms, I nearly tripped on a small lump blocking the front entrance rug. I gazed down, my eyes growing wide as Olive popped her little head up, huffed, then flopped onto her back to expose her belly to the sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the tip of her tail thumping.
“Olive?” I asked, shocked and delighted.
She’d made great strides recently, managing to leave the confines of her kennel, socializing with other dogs in the yard, and even allowing me to pet her on occasion, but usually not without significant cajoling, three dozen treats, or Chris present—I swore he only had to sing a ridiculous tune or crook a finger and Olive would trail behind him like a love-struck schoolgirl. Which meant the handsome bastard had to be around here somewhere—Olive wouldn’t feel calm and safe enough to sunbathe in the lobby otherwise.
I kneeled down, the packages in my grasp wobbling like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but the moment I reached out to scratch her side, she rolled onto her stomach, let out a low growl that was more of a rumble, and trotted away, probably in search of her wingman. Wonderful.
Sure enough, Olive resettled at Chris’s feet, curling up where he sat in the reception waiting area, laughing and chatting with Penny and Jay, the man interested in adopting Meatball. What was he doing here? I sighed and walked over to them.
“There’s the woman of the hour,” Chris said, his face brightening as I approached.
“Jay was in the neighborhood, so he dropped in to check on Meatball,” Penny said, her tone as cautious as her expression, as though my irritation regarding Jay’s sudden presence was radiating off me in waves. I bristled at the sight of Meaty’s folder resting in her lap, and she shifted in her seat and cast her gaze away.
“Great to see you again, Ms. Grant,” Jay said with a warm smile. Dressed in a crisp navy suit with sandy blond hair and next-day stubble, he resembled one of those innocuously attractive, mildly charismatic men on commercials for business-class airlines or midtier sedans. “I’m glad I stopped by. Chris mentioned Meatball’s adoption fell through due to the mother changing her mind. In light of that, I hope you’ll reconsider my application.”
Damn, the guy was persistent.
“I’ll certainly review it again,” I said, even though I had no intention of following through.
I shot Chris a glare that indicated we needed to talk later, which he either ignored or couldn’t interpret, though I’d guess the former. It wasn’t his place to share that sort of information with Jay—each dog’s file was kept confidential for a reason. Over the years, I’d experienced everything from angry, neglectful owners trying to reclaim their pets to the threats that came from raided puppy mills and animal-fighting rings. And while I didn’t believe Jay was harmful, Meatball’s status wasn’t his business, nor was I 100 percent sure he could adequately care for my favorite pit bull.
Penny cleared her throat, gesturing to the boxes in my arms, and faced Jay. “As you can tell, Hazel’s juggling a lot right now. So how about we rehash our earlier conversation with her, and we’ll give you a call?”
“Sounds great, thanks.” Jay stood, Chris and Penny doing the same, shook their hands, and dipped his chin at me. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I waited until Jay had disappeared into the parking lot and driven away before rounding on Penny. “ ‘We’ll give you a call ’? Really?”
She actually had the audacity to shrug at me. “How else was I supposed to respond? ‘Get lost, Jay, Hazel doesn’t like you’?”
“In nicer terms, but yes,” I said, setting the packages on the reception desk.
Penny sighed and shook her head as Chris asked, “What do you have against the guy, anyway?” He laced his fingers together and extended his arms in a stretch that had the corded muscles of his shoulders bunching and flexing, visible even beneath his heavy cable-knit sweater, causing all sorts of unsavory thoughts to rush through my mind. Olive mirrored his movements, sticking her front paws out with her butt high in the air and releasing a yawn. “Jay seems decent to me—I didn’t pick up on a single red flag while he was talking to us.”
“I agree,” Penny said. “Were you aware that Jay grew up around pit bulls? His family had three of them as pets—showed us pictures and everything. Which means he’s already familiar with the care and attention the breed requires.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. Why hadn’t Jay included that detail on the initial paperwork he’d provided? Perhaps he thought it wouldn’t matter. Still . . .
“His history with pit bulls is certainly worth noting, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jay is a workaholic. Meatball needs a companion, not an invisible guardian.” Why was I the only one concerned about this?
“Hazel, give the guy a break. Jay even commented that he just made partner at his law firm, which is the reason he’d been putting in such hellish hours at the office, but since then things have settled down drastically for him. There isn’t an issue here,” Chris cut in, his voice climbing an octave as Olive jumped and scratched at his thigh, as though she was worried that with all this Meatball chatter, Chris might replace her as his wingwoman. I was just happy to see Olive inviting someone to touch her.
“Maybe not in your limited viewpoint, but this isn’t exactly your area of expertise, Chris,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “My gut tells me Jay’s not the right fit for Meaty.”
“Have you considered that not all first impressions are accurate, especially in this situation?” Chris leaned against the reception desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, and peered at me as though he knew I didn’t have a good answer. “Otherwise, I’d have been fired weeks ago.”
“I wasn’t aware firing you was an option,” I said, matching his pointed stare with one of my own.
Penny rolled her eyes and tucked Meaty’s file under her arm. “Listen, Hazel, the truth is that Meatball has been here longer than any of our other difficult-to-place dogs. At this rate, his prospects outside of Jay are nil—”
“Exactly,” Chris interjected. “So what’s the worst-case scenario? That you take a chance on someone who doesn’t work out, or that Meatball is left to linger here alone?”
I sighed. As much as I hated to admit it, Chris had a point. The longer Meatball remained at Rescue Granted, the worse his chances became of getting adopted—and the longer I had to wait to bring in another desperate dog to help.
“Okay, fine. Draw up the paperwork,” I said grudgingly, my words warring with my instincts.
Based on everything Chris had shown me—bonding with Olive, the ridiculous billboard display, the diligent and prompt work he’d put in at the shelter—I’d been wrong about him, so maybe I was wrong about Jay, too. For the first time, I found myself hoping I wouldn’t turn out to be right.
The iron gate to the small-breed play area clanged shut and Penny marched through, looking furious.
“You better come with me,” she said, her dark, curly hair frizzier than normal and cheeks flushed, though I didn’t think it was from the cold. “Your fairy godmother has arrived.”
I squinted and tilted my head. “I’m not understanding,” I said, nearly losing my balance as Waffles slipped on a patch of ice in the grass and collided nose-first with my shin. He plopped his happy butt on the ground and stared up at me as if he couldn’t fathom why I was all the way up here, well out of licking range.
Penny huffed, her breath escaping in white puffs, and gestured impatiently at me. “Just trust me.” Then she marched away, leaving me standing there more confused than ever.
I handed over control of the small-breed play area to my volunteer Donna and followed Penny straight into what could only be described as a three-ring circus. A massive truck with PETSVILLE USA printed on the side consumed almost the entire parking lot. Chris stood at the open cargo area, directing two delivery guys like a flight attendant as they lowered a mechanical ramp onto the asphalt. News crews from various local stations were set up in the grass flanking the area, the reporters all talking into their microphones while they faced the camera, the shelter providing the backdrop.
“What in the hell is going on?” I asked, watching as box after box was unloaded and placed onto dollies. “Who ordered all of this? And what is it?”
“Ask jolly old Saint Chris over there. He seems perfectly at home wrangling the elves who, by the way, sneered at me when I told them you were busy.” Penny rolled her eyes, then pointed at the man jogging across the lot to us. “That’s the Petsville store rep.”
“Hazel Grant?” he asked, thrusting a clipboard at my chest. “Need you to read through the inventory details, then sign for receipt after we finish unpacking.” He retrieved a pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“There are twelve pages here,” I said, quickly scanning the list, which included everything from dog beds to bags of food to medicine to toys to grooming supplies.
The guy shrugged and blew hot breaths onto his clenched fists. “Light for a commercial haul.”
“All this is considered light?” Penny snorted. “That truck is a giant Mary Poppins bag—packages just keep flowing out.”
“Will you excuse me?” I said to the store rep, passing him back the pen and clipboard.
“But what about—” he started.
I held up a palm, cutting him off, and stormed over to where Chris was now snapping selfies with the unloading crew.
“Care to explain?” I asked through gritted teeth and a tight smile.
“Well, this is what’s known as a parcel delivery,” he said slowly, as if talking to Olive. “You see, the way it works is that these fine men will deposit all the boxes inside the shelter in the designated spots of your choosing—”
“I’m leaning toward option A, Lalonde.” I crossed my arms and gave him a look that said if he didn’t watch it, I’d grab the surgical tools from an operating room and snip him right here in the parking lot.
“Option A sounds scary,” one of the crew members said from where he was tossing odd-shaped packages onto a rolling cart in a haphazard pile.
“It involves neutering,” I replied, then spun toward Chris again. “So I’ll repeat the question. Care to explain?”
“What can I say? This is the consequence of me inviting people to join me in bed. I get showered with gifts.” He winked. Cocky ass thought he was so witty and irresistible, which he was, but I’d rather French kiss Sausage and Beans than admit that to him.
“Excuse me?”
“You know, shiny tokens left at the pedestal of a god for favor and good fortune? What else did you expect to happen as a result of that billboard photo of me smothered in puppies?” Chris stepped closer, and my breath hitched at his nearness. “Though I gotta admit, Hazel Grant, I’m curious as to what present you’d bring me to unwrap.” His voice dipped low, his eyes flickering with amusement, and my stomach tripped over itself.
“Deworming medication,” I replied, wishing I could wipe the smirk off his face in a way that didn’t put me in dangerous proximity to his lips.
As it was, it was requiring every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from imagining Chris unwrapping me like a birthday surprise. Stripping off my sweater. Skimming his rough, callused fingers along the waistband of my jeans and unfastening the buttons. Tracing his tongue across my collarbone as a hand slid up my spine to unhook my bra.
So much about Chris was flash and fire, and I knew there’d be plenty of that on display in the bedroom. But it was also startlingly easy to envision what it would feel like to be the center of his complete attention. The way he’d leisurely take his time exploring the parts of me I never exposed to anyone. How Chris would learn every curve and dip and inch of my body until he’d memorized my skin. Even his simple gesture at the gala, when he’d rested his palm on the small of my back, had caused butterflies to erupt in my stomach.
To stop myself from completely losing control, I scowled and tried to remind myself of all the reasons why falling for Chris was a bad idea. When none came to mind, I settled for glaring at his knowing grin.
“It’s okay to picture me naked—most women do—but since you already look in danger of overheating, I won’t linger on the subject.” Chris flashed his typical arrogant grin, and without my permission, my gaze dropped, running along the length of his chest and down his abs, replacing his sweater with the miles of tanned skin I soaked in every morning on my commute over the last week and a half.
“But in all seriousness, Petsville USA heard about the billboard and reached out to me regarding a marketing partnership,” he continued, his expression softening. “I have a long-standing policy that I don’t champion products without trying them first, so I told the company not to bother cutting me a check since I don’t own a pet—or want one—and instead recommended they donate a shelter kit for each dog at Rescue Granted.”
“A shelter kit?” I asked, wanting to believe that this whole charade was some halfhearted attempt to impress the various media outlets that had somehow been invited to this display. That for his own gain he’d secured trial-sized portions of products that the dogs would destroy in a heartbeat. The alternative was as overwhelming as it was generous.
“Yeah.” Chris rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture as endearing as his actions. “The company asked me what you needed here, so I walked them through the life cycle of the majority of your cases. I requested the basics and also higher-end items that emphasized long-life reusability.”
My mouth went dry and tears blurred my vision. He had actually done all that for me? Never in a million years could I have afforded to purchase this amount of supplies for the shelter, nor had I ever received a donation so large. This would set us up for a year.
“And they just”—I glanced at the boxes being wheeled through the main entrance—“agreed to all this?” I covered the warble in my voice with a cough.
“Well, in exchange for my endorsement once you determine which products you like.” He raised a palm toward my face and I leaned into it instinctively, but just as he was about to graze my cheek he dropped his arm, as if thinking better of it. “They were a little reluctant at first to send all the items on the hope that you’ll sign off, so I agreed to call in some press to cover the delivery. Petsville USA gets the good PR, even if I don’t end up endorsing the company down the line. My agent’s pissed of course, because he’s accustomed to earning fifteen percent off opportunities like this rather than getting payment in the form of squeaky rubber bones and foam pet beds, but he’ll adjust.”
I smiled. “And what if I like the waste disposal bags?”
“Then for you, Hazel Grant, I’ll be scooping poop with a grin.” He grabbed my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze, and my heart lodged itself in my throat. “How does that sound?”
All I could do was look at him, wide-eyed and stunned, endorphins pumping through my veins until happiness infused every corner of my body. Because if I spoke, the next words out of my mouth would be about me shoving aside my reservations—and common sense—and begging Chris to pull me into that fluffy bed with him and his pack of adorable puppies.
“Now come on, Grant.” He draped an arm across my shoulders, pulling my body tight against his side, and guided me toward the door. “Christmas arrived early, and I know you can’t wait to scope out what Santa brought and unwrap all your presents.”
Oh god, how I wanted to.
Starting with the man next to me.