“Eh …”
We walk a little farther down the path, stopping momentarily at a fountain for Cleo to check out her reflection in the water. Rusti and I move in silence as she undoubtedly thinks about Zack and my mind drifts to Wade.
Rusti was right when she said he’s my catnip. She doesn’t realize how true that is. I don’t think I fully understood the truth of her words until I sat at the kitchen table at two this morning and talked it out with a brownie.
My weakness has always started with tall, dark, and handsome. It’s the trifecta that captures my attention out of a sea of men. Add in a sharp jawline, dazzling eyes, and a smirk? I’m ready to dip my toe into the proverbial pool.
Usually, it stops there. The water will get murky. He’ll have the brains of a jackass or the attention of a gnat. He’ll talk out of both sides of his mouth. He’ll be too sweet. Something typically causes me to drag myself away from him as fast as I was initially intrigued.
But of the men who manage to hold my interest? The ones who exude intelligence? The few who have wit and class? The men who present themselves as a bit of a challenge with an aura of mystery?
Wade checks those boxes, making them fall like dominos. I get a rush of energy, of excitement, every time I think about him.
And this can’t be about him.
I don’t have the space in my life for anything to be about anyone but me, and I definitely don’t have time to deal with entangling myself in any way with a man who would surely do little more than disappoint me on some level.
Or break my heart.
“I don’t think I’m going to work with Catnip.” The words streaming from my mouth take me by surprise as much as they do Rusti.
She lifts a brow. “Really? Okay. Not what I was expecting, but …”
“It wasn’t what I was expecting either.” Especially because I didn’t know that I’d made this decision until now. “I’ve been thinking about it.” About him. “And you were absolutely right when you said he was my type.”
Rusti tugs at Cleo’s leash to stop her from barking at a tree. “So you aren’t working with anyone you find attractive now? What if you find the unicorn hot firefighter and he books a photo sesh?”
I grin and ignore her. I need to talk through this—realistically.
“This house is going to change my life—either because I have an amazing place to live in for the rest of my life or it’s something that I can sell later on and be set. But getting to that point …” I sigh. “As much as I absolutely hate crying, this might get emotional.”
“I know.” Rusti frowns. “You have every right to be emotional about it.”
I stuff down a wave of thoughts that always float just under the surface. Now isn’t the time to get into all of that.
“This is going to be a process,” I say firmly. “The closer we get to making it happen, the more nervous I get. And I don’t need to be dealing with some guy who I know, for a fact, is difficult to work with—”
“And who you’re attracted to.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. That too. Because every guy who fits the bill of my catnip, as you call it, always does what?”
Her face sobers. “Breaks your heart.”
“Bingo.” I roll my head around my shoulders. “I’m not saying he’d even be into me. Maybe we could just forge an antiseptic working relationship. But the odds are stacked against this, Russell.”
Rusti glares at me for using the nickname I created for her.
“Too many things could already go wrong here without adding in a potential issue with the architect,” I say, continuing.
I hadn’t thought this out. But now that it’s all laid out in front of me … it makes sense. It’s logical.
It’s the right answer.
I know it in my heart. I can feel it in my soul.
“My focus needs to be on me,” I say.
“You’ve had a hell of a year. When you put it like that, I agree with you one hundred percent. You have to follow your gut, Dara, and if it’s telling you that this isn’t the right answer—listen to it.” She digs into her pocket and retrieves her phone. “Speaking of listening to it, can you hold Cleo’s leash for a minute so I can listen to work tell me that I need to come in early and they can listen to me tell them to eff off?”
I swear that Cleo looks over her shoulder and laughs at me.
“Fine. Sure. Give her to me,” I say.
Rusti hands me the leash before walking off into the grass.
“I know you don’t like me,” I tell Cleo. “I don’t like you either. So let’s just keep this friendly, okay?”
She leads me down another path that heads toward a marshy area. It’s one of my favorite spots in the park.
“Good choice,” I tell the dog as we get farther away from Rusti.
Moss sways in the breeze, draping over the heavy branches overhead. The rhythmic movement sweeps the negative thoughts from my mind. Before I know it, I’m mentally designing holiday backdrops for a family photo session.
It’s almost as though the universe teamed up with Cleo to conspire against me because just as I let my shoulders fall, the dog springs into action.
“Cleo!” I shout, my voice tinged with panic as the Jack Russell terrier jerks to my right.
I try to move the leash to my other hand, but the transfer fails. The end of the leash slips through my fingers, and Cleo makes a break for it.
“Shit.”
Sprinting as fast as a nearly thirty-year-old woman who hasn’t run since high school, I travel across the lawn in pursuit of the dog. Her silly pink rhinestone-encrusted collar catches the sunlight, and I swear it gives her another five miles per hour.
“Cleo!” I call out, already panting. “Cleo, please stop!”
She doesn’t stop.
A bead of sweat breaks out across my forehead as I chase her through the trees. I should’ve worn a sports bra, I think as I clutch a hand to my bouncing chest.
I hate this dog. I hate this dog so much.
Thankfully, like a gift from the heavens, she stops running at the edge of the marsh. She looks at me with her tongue wagging out of the side of her mouth.
I get to her as quickly as I can in my state of mid-cardiac arrest. But just before I can reach her leash, she dives into the muddy water and races through it.
“Dammit,” I say, looking behind me in hopes that Rusti will be right there.
She’s not.
“Cleo!”
My shout isn’t as loud as before, and my steps aren’t as quick—not that they were ever quick to start with. But Cleo’s seem to slow too as she approaches a large oak tree.
I sense my opening. I find my Supercharger, courtesy of a Red Bull I downed just before I got here, and bolt after the dog. But as soon as I clear the trunk, my feet stumble.
As I catch myself against the rough tree and the bark scratches my palms, I watch in horror as the now-brown dog leaps into the air—mud flying off her fur—like a circus-trained professional, vaults onto a picnic table, and then launches herself into the arms of an unsuspecting man leaning against a bench.