Page 46 of Long Shot

“Me, too. And you’re right. He does have a personality. He’s intrepid.”

“Intrepid.” I purse my lips. “Yeah. I like it.”

“Uh . . . he might need a bath now.”

We both stare down at the wet, sandy pup. Pungent odor of wet dog emanates from him. I can’t be upset, though. “Oh, well.”

“I’ll help you.”

“You don’t need to do that.” I bend to clip the leash to Jack’s collar.

He doesn’t even bother responding to that, and I know I haven’t dissuaded him; he just isn’t bothering to argue with me. That makes me smile, too.

Cade snags his shirt from where he dropped it on dry sand, shakes it out and pulls it on. I watch from the corner of my eye, sad that he’s covering up all those beautiful muscles. I swallow a sigh.

We set off back across the sand toward Ocean Boulevard, Jack’s pace slower now.

“I think you exhausted him,” I say. “He’s not used to so much physical activity.”

“How old is he?”

“They weren’t sure, but they think about four years old.”

“That’s still young. He needs to be active.”

“Are you saying I don’t give him enough exercise?”

“No! Fuck, no.” He flashes a scowl at me. “Clearly, you love him.”

“No, I don’t.”’

“What?” He gapes.

I sigh. It’s a lie. I’m lying to myself. Jack is going to leave. He’s going to a forever home someday. I have to protect my poor heart. “Okay, I kind of like him. A little.”

“Uh-huh.” We walk across Ocean. “You, Reese Kirkwell, are a big phony.”

“What?”

“You act all tough and strong and bossy. But you have a soft heart.”

“No, I don’t.” My entire body tightens. My response is automatic. He can’t be right. I can’t have a soft heart. I can’t care.

I had to be tough to make it in a high-testosterone profession. That beer bottle thrown at me? Yeah, that was only one incident among many, including profanity-laced diatribes directed at me by a chef with anger management issues because I put too much chicken stock into a sauce or overcooked a piece of rainbow trout, screaming at me that I might as well be sitting at home on my couch watching Nigella Fucking Lawson. Or another boss who liked to grab my ass any chance he got.

I learned to be strong. Resilient. Assertive. Working for drama kings in kitchens in high-end restaurants is not a place for the faint of heart. And then . . . when I had to be tough, to be bossy and strong, just like he said . . .God.

I close my eyes briefly at the wave of darkness that rolls over me. That darkness I hoped to leave behind in New York.

I pull in a long, slow breath and let it out even slower. Control. I’m fine.

“Yes, you do.” As if he’s unaware of my internal struggle, he nudges me with his shoulder as we walk along Thomas. “I’ve seen it. It’s why you helped Sid.”

I swallow. I have no answer.

“You still want to help him,” Cade continues. “You want to help all of us. You want Conquistadors to serve good food.”

I blink hard and fast at the stinging in the corners of my eyes. I stare straight ahead as we walk. I want to deny it. But how can I? I press my lips together.

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