I slowly walk toward him, looking up through my lashes like some kind of femme fatale. “Oh, it’s true. You wanted nothing to do with me.”
His look softens for a moment before he heads into the kitchen, grabbing two small plates from the glass cupboards. “I want nothing to do with most people. Never take it personal.”
“Tell that to old Kayla. She had no idea she’d get the chance to put your gorgeous cock in her mouth.”
The plates rattle against the counter. “You do have some mouth on you.”
“Exactly.”
He comes back into the room with his hulking swagger, setting the plates down. He nods at the pushed out seat. “Here. Sit down, please.”
I hook my purse on the corner of the chair and take a seat. Both dogs stare at me from the couch.
“So, how are they?” I ask him.
He looks behind him and I take a moment to appreciate every hardened, strained muscle in his neck and shoulders. “As I said, they’re adjusting.” He sits down and folds his hands in front of him. “Someone is coming by tomorrow to see about adopting Ed. But I think Emily will be coming home with me.”
“Which one is Ed?”
“The pit,” he says.
“Funny, I would have thought he’d be harder to find a home for.”
“Usually. But Ed is a big sweetie, and people in this city are a little more tolerant of bully breeds than people in the UK. Emily, however, as sweet as she looks,” he glances back at the scruffy dog, who immediately bares her teeth at me, “has behavior problems. She’ll need work.”
“And are you the one who teaches them?” I ask. “Because if so, then you are the dog whisperer, which means there’s pretty much nothing you can’t do.”
He looks down at his hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel on the streets in Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some things. You never know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to train dogs, especially those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not that kind of person. I will do whatever I can to save them, but I’m not the person who can school them on obedience.”
“Really?”
A quiet, almost uncomfortable smile tugs at his lips. “A dog with behavioral problems shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioral problems.”
I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You just seem like a natural. These two were strays, and now look at them. Just like that.”
“I can get the dogs to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them. But I can’t get them to trust others.”
“Because you don’t trust people?”
He slowly blinks and then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may trust you. Here’s to that.”
“Here’s to that,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than meeting him in the eyes—I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker somehow, moving shadows. Depthless. Behavioral problems? What kind? How much more can I learn about him before he’s gone?
I take a gulp of my wine and he barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the glass back down and pushes it away from him.
“I’ve never seen you drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he won’t take offense.
He gives me a long, measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I don’t.”
“Because of training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.
A slow nod. “Yes.”
He’s still not meeting my eyes. His focus is on the cheeseboard, and even though he’s not frowning like he usually is, his shoulders seem tense.
“What other things do you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel like we’ve regressed a little bit and I want that sexy, casual banter back.
He drums his fingers along the edge of the table and I lean forward, trying to get some cheese on my plate. “Lot of work in the gym. Lot of work on the pitch. A good diet.”