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Luna closed her eyes the second we left the limo, and she’s panting hard now. I’ve also heard a few whimpers from her. I don’t know much about dogs, but that sound can’t be a good sign. Even if this isn’t a life-or-death situation, Luna is in serious pain. But then I think, shit, gunshot? How can this not be a life-or-death scenario?
I glance up from the dog, prepared to scream for the vet, but she’s standing five feet from me, wearing gray pajamas with dancing cats beneath a white lab coat. Still, the PJ look isn’t too different from Kayla’s long-sleeve cotton ensemble—minus the blood.
For now, I think. Because in another second, the vet will take the gunshot victim from my arms and rush her into surgery … right?
Dr. Kitty PJs remains frozen in place. Her lips are parted, and she manages a weak “hello,” but she doesn’t move.
I’ve seen this before. I wasn’t expecting this reaction tonight, during an emergency vet visit, but I know what I look like in a suit. Tall, broad shouldered, with a dark, well-trimmed beard, I could play James Bond—if Daniel Craig ever gives up the role. Add in the fact that most people recognize me from the endorsement deals I’ve landed since rocketing to fame in the billionaire tech space, and yeah, I’m familiar with the vet’s driven-to-distraction look.
My ex-girlfriend gave me that look.
But holding a bleeding dog is not the time to think about Alexandra and her crazy scheme.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed the vet’s expression. Kayla’s been here before, too. My best friend steps in front of me now, determined to draw Dr. Kitty PJ’s eyes to the bleeding pup before the vet tries to hand me h
er panties.
I’m not being vain, either. It’s happened before. Not while I was holding a Labrador with a gunshot wound, but once at this benefit—
“Where do you want Luna?” Kayla demands.
The vet blinks, and just like that the spell is broken. “Exam room one. I’ll give her something for the pain, and then try to extract the bullet.”
“Follow Marianne!” Kayla calls out the order, and I obey.
I can hear my friend’s footsteps behind me. I enter the cramped room filled with high-tech machines that scream “hospital,” and gently lower Luna to the metal table.
Kayla reaches out to pet her head.
“It’s probably better if you wait outside while we work,” the vet says.
Kayla nods. Then she leans forward and kisses the dog’s head. She turns away and I reach for her, pulling her close against my chest. She’s held it together up until now, but everyone has a breaking point. This is hers. I’ve seen it before. She’s amazing during a crisis, but after the worst is over, she falls apart.
That’s where I come in.
“I’ll take her to the waiting room,” I tell Dr. Marianne and her young assistant, who materializes out of nowhere. Like everyone else I’ve seen in this town tonight, the vet’s aide is wearing pink-striped, flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt. But the dude hasn’t spared a glance in my direction. He’s too busy pulling on rubber gloves and selecting a big-ass needle from a cart lined with bigger-ass needles.
And that’s our cue to leave.
I steer Kayla into the cramped waiting room. There’s a line of metal chairs next to a rack of pet brochures. I lead her to one with a mostly intact cushion. The others look as if they’ve been attacked by a swarm of angry cats.
And that’s probably not far from the truth.
She sinks into the chair and draws a deep, shaky breath.
Oh, shit. She’s on the verge of losing it completely, and there’s not a damn thing I can say to make her feel better. Her dog will probably be in surgery for a while. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more important to Kayla than her pack of misfit rescue animals. Her heart will undoubtedly break open right here in the vet’s waiting room if something goes wrong, and I won’t be able to pick up the pieces.
No, I need to stop the heartbreak, or at least delay it, until we hear from the pajama-clad vets. I draw a deep breath and then reach over and take her hand.
“Kayla.”
I wait for her to look at me. Her eyes are brimming with tears. I need to act fast, or she will soon be lost to her own weepy despair. She needs a distraction. Thankfully, I am ready and able to give her just what she needs … if that’s what she wants. That’s a damn big “if,” judging from the size of those teardrops waiting to grace her freckle-covered cheeks.
“I can either distract you,” I say. “Or hold you and let you cry like crazy. Your call.”
She straightens, drawing her spine up and making the most of her petite five-foot-four-inch frame, all while sitting on the rickety old chair. “Distract me.”
I nod. “I’m in trouble. My girlfriend is blackmailing me. Well, she’s my ex-girlfriend now. But that doesn’t matter.”
