It wasn’t emotional. Not for him, anyway.
The only thing I do know is that he has my pets at his house. And unless I’m going to gas up my car and disappear Thelma and Louise–style (minus the dramatic death), I need to get my animals.
Which means I need to go to his place no matter what, because even if I was going to leave town Thelma and Louise–style, I would definite bring my pets with me.
I do the only thing I can do. I throw out the cherry limeade—which didn’t sit well with my anxiety anyway—and head over to Max’s house.
I know he has my animals as soon as I pull up in front of his house because parked in front of his house in place of his sensible sedan sits a rental truck, the kind you can rent by the hour from the hardware store. Even more tellingly, Lou’s crate is still in the back.
Did he honestly drive from my house to his with my dogs in the back of his truck in their crates? Surely even he wouldn’t be that dumb.
And while I’m not one hundred percent sure it would be dangerous for them, I am one thousand percent sure they would hate it.
By the time I’m out of my car and up the walkway to his house, I am mentally halfway into an epic lecture about animal safety. I don’t just ring his doorbell, I poke it so many times and so hard I’m pretty sure I break the damn thing.
The resulting cacophony assures me my animals are here, but does little to soothe my anger and indignation.
When he opens the door, I launch straight into my rant. “I don’t know if you thought this was going to be funny or what, but this was very irresponsible. And—”
I break off as I take in the scene before me.
Yes, Max is there, looking decidedly more disheveled than he usually does. And that is saying something. He’s barefoot and wearing jeans and a teal T-shirt that makes his eyes look almost aqua. The T-shirt is tucked in, but only on one side. The untucked side appears to have—
“Did someone take a bite out of your shirt?”
Before he can answer, two things happen at once.
Somewhere in the house, a voice says, “Baaaaaaa,” and, with the usual clatter of dog nails, Skip and Lou come running for me. And the open door behind me.
“The dogs!” I yelp, because if they make it to the freedom of an unfamiliar street, they will bolt.
Max seems to understand this, because he grabs my arm, jerks me into the house and slams the door shut behind me.
He doesn’t just pull me into the house.
He pulls me into his arms.
My hands automatically go his chest. His hands land on my butt and he lifts me off my feet as the dogs skitter to a halt, prancing around us in excited joy.
Despite myself—despite my anger and anxiety—my heart starts pounding in a decidedly non-angry, non-anxious way.
I suck in a breath full of Max-scented yumminess and meet his gaze.
A second passes. Then several more. He doesn’t put me down, but just holds me against him, every delicious bit of his body pressed to mine. My legs dangle uselessly as I just stare into his eyes.
I swallow. “Are you going to put me down?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Who am I to argue with that logic?
It’s not like I want him to put me down.
“But isn’t this hard on your hip?”
“You hardly weigh anything.” He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “Besides, someone told me recently that my cane was a crutch.”
