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She was already wearing a bright smile when she opened the door. A smile that quickly fell off her face when she saw me carrying Smoke.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “What happened?”
I grimaced as I walked past her through the door that she held open.
“Some asshole decided to run the dog over instead of stopping his car,” I said. “He’s okay. He could’ve been seriously hurt. But luckily, he dodged enough that they only ran over his tail. They had to amputate part of it. He should be up and running in no time, but they still had him on some pain medication and he’s partially still under the effects of the anesthesia.”
“Oh, you poor big boy.” Carolina looked at him with sadness filling her eyes. “Can I touch him? I know that he’s a working dog and all.”
I was already nodding my head. “You care if I put him on that blanket on the floor?”
Carolina swept the blanket up and laid it over the couch instead. “Put him there. He doesn’t need to stay on the floor.”
I did as she suggested and Smoke groaned when Carolina went as far as to prop his head up with a pillow.
“How did this happen again?” she asked.
I recounted my night.
“Well, it all started with the SWAT call. Then I went to work after that, and about halfway through my shift, some asshole decides to take off while I’m doing a search of his car. He nearly ran over the dog when he backed up, then purposefully steered toward him after that. Ran over his tail and the doctor had to amputate it. He looks weird, doesn’t he?” I couldn’t believe our luck.
Poor Smoke.
“He does look a bit odd,” she agreed. “But he’ll work it. Will this change his duties at work?”
“The vet suggested we give him a week off to make sure that he knows how to handle himself, but ultimately said that dogs do very well with this type of surgery,” I admitted. “I wish I could pull that guy out of the car and punch him all over again.”
She blinked at me with wide eyes. “You punched him?”
I shrugged. “I was out of sorts.”
She snickered and patted him on the back one last time before she stood up and said, “Are you hungry? I made a cake today.”
I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Who told you it was my birthday?”
“It’s your birthday?” she all but shrieked. “What?”
I frowned. “Yes, well technically my birthday is December twenty-fifth, but I choose not to celebrate it that day.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” She threw her hands out wide. “That’s something that I think one would share with the person that they’re sleeping with.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it, unsure what to say.
“I…” I paused. “You didn’t know? Then why did you make a cake?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, causing her breasts to rise up with the movement. It also pressed them together, which then made me take notice of the sweatshirt she was wearing.
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” I said dumbly. “When did you get that?”
She pulled it away from her chest and then shrugged. “I’m not sure. But when I got it, I didn’t bother trying to give it back. I like it.” Her eyes narrowed again. “And don’t think that you can change the subject.” She turned her back on me and headed into the kitchen where a chocolate cake with chocolate icing sat on a stand in the middle of her kitchen island. “I can’t believe I just all of a sudden had a hankering for cake. I wouldn’t have normally done this. It’s kismet.”
I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, my hands coming to a stop on her lower abdomen as I pulled her closer into me.
“I don’t usually share my birthday with anyone,” I admitted. “When I was younger, my mother always used to use it as a political appearance. An ‘oh look how special I treat my only son when it’s his birthday.’ When I was around fourteen, I stopped asking for presents, and my parents conveniently forgot that it was my birthday a lot of the times, so I make up my birthday, since they don’t acknowledge it anyway. It’s just habit now. The only person that really always remembered was Brad and the other secret service agents that watched over me.”
“Brad?” she asked. “The one that you think is possibly responsible for hurting your father and murdering your mother?”
“How did you hear that?” I asked carefully, turning her around to face me.
“My dad and your boss, Luke, got to talking. They were really careful about being quiet, but I kind of sort of snuck up on them. We used to do that a lot when we were kids.” She paused. “Are you mad at me?”
