“It’s not your fault,” she says as I put the truck in park in my driveway. Clenching my jaw tight, attempting to focus on calming my breathing, I don’t answer her. Instead, I get out of the vehicle and come around to her side to help her step down, slinging her bag over my shoulder and snagging the rest of her clothes with my free hand.
As we walk up the stairs to my home, one of my hands stays at the base of her back, as if my need to maintain some sort of contact with her has to be satisfied. Once I unlock and disarm the alarm system, I hear the telltale noise of the automatic doggy door sliding open before the sound of Harley’s nails on the hardwood floors approaching us. And who does he go to first?
Yeah. My dog’s a damn traitor.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Noelle greets him when he comes right over to sit, waiting for her to pet him, bending her knees to get on his level. Once she does this, he gives her a big kiss on her cheek, as if he knows she needs it after the night she’s had. And this is the moment where I wait for it. Where I wait for her to say, Ewww. Stop it, and wipe off his saliva. While I know it’s not the most awesome thing in the world to have a dog lick you in affection—especially considering I’ve seen him lick his own ass—he’s got feelings, too. Harley’s a good boy and his affection is not given freely. The fact that he instantly took to Noelle says a lot.
The laugh—that little melodic laugh she lets out as soon as he kisses her makes me feel as though someone has punched me in the solar plexus. That sound, the fact that she’s appreciating my dog’s affection, the way she’s murmuring sweet sentiments to him as if I’m not even present—did someone cut off the oxygen supply in here? Because I’m having trouble breathing.
Of course, that means I have to go and be dick about it.
“Whenever you’re done making out with my dog, your bag and clothes,” I hold them up, dangling from my fingers, “will be in your—the spare bedroom.” Heading off in the direction of said room, I ignore the loud whisper that follows.
“Someone sounds like he’s jealous of all the love you’re giving me, doesn’t he? Oh, yes, he does.” A small chuckle sounds. “I love you, too, Harley. You know exactly how to make a girl feel better, don’t you?”
It’s in that moment—for the first time ever—I realize Noelle’s actually right. I’m jealous of my own damn dog getting all that attention and affection. I want to be the one who makes her laugh and the one who gets to kiss her. Maybe not in the same sloppy manner, but—
“Thanks for, uh, rescuing me once again.”
So lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t registered her approach. Which is not at all like me. No one sneaks up on me.
Seems like this woman is creating a lot of firsts for me.
“Anytime, Davis.”
The smile she gives me is tinged with sadness and remorse. “I hope it won’t have to happen again.”
Stepping away from where I set her bag on the bed, moving closer to where she’s standing in the doorway, I cup her face in my hands. Fully realizing I’m giving in to the urge to touch her once again, I ignore the voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m crossing lines again.
Gazing down into her eyes, allowing the pads of my thumbs to swipe slowly across her cheekbones, I watch her eyes widen at the touch, pupils dilating.
“Even if it were to happen, I’d still do it, again, in a heartbeat.” My words are earnest, my tone husky, but it’s the truth. “Anything for you,” I add because something inside of me wants to communicate the fact that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, to keep her safe.
There’s also a part of me that recognizes how dangerous this is—that this woman manages to trigger something deep within me, feelings, emotions, I thought were long since dead, closed off for years.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Noelle
I’m convinced Foster has connections with the people who make the most amazing down comforters in the world. Kind of crazy because the sheets on this bed are super soft, too. As in, a bazillion thread count or something. Yeah, I should really splurge once in a while. Maybe at Christmastime, I’ll upgrade to a three hundred thread count instead of the cheap ones I find on clearance at Target.
Even with all the plush comfort of this bed, I still find myself unable to fall asleep. Foster had poured me a glass of wine last night in hopes that it would relax my body and mind enough to be able to rest. No such luck, though.
Thoughts have continued to run through my head and, unable to turn them off, they were becoming nearly deafening. Throwing back the covers with a soft grunt, I kick my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Immediately, Harley sits up and cocks his head to the side.