Page 48 of Just The Way You Aren't

Damien looks about ready to jump out of his skin. “Is this a pit bull?”

“Yes. Well, he’s a mixed breed of some kind. They were going to euthanize him, poor thing,” I say, sadness creeping into my voice.

Spike makes a final decision that he approves, and jumps up on the sofa, crawling over Tiny’s head to settle himself in what is left of Damien’s lap. He licks Damien’s chin.

Damien stares at Spike and Tiny. Rufus has gone back to butting his head against Damien’s shins. Mingo…

“Oh no,” I moan just before my other cat, Mingo, creeps up behind Damien’s head and dumps a ceramic cat figure onto him with just a swat of his paw.

Damien jumps. The figurine hits Spike in the head, who yowls.

“Oh, poor baby. Here, let me help you,” I coo, coming over. “Mingo, that was very bad of y—Tiny, no! Drop it!”

Tiny stands with the ceramic figure in his mouth, looking completely innocent.

Damien looks about as uncomfortable as I would’ve guessed he’d be, swarmed by a horde of animals in his expensive clothes. He sighs, but offers me a resigned smile. “How about you go get dressed and I handle all of… this?”

“You sure? Because I can corral them into the bedroom until we leave.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve already got dog and cat hair on me. Might as well get some slobber, too.”

I blush, not sure if this is an insult to me or not. But, if he thinks he can handle the situation for a few minutes, I’ll let him. Besides, it might actually be good for him to be showered in several minutes of unfiltered pet love. I wonder if he even knows what it’s like to have a pet. If not, I feel a little sorry for him.

I nod and go back in my bedroom, taking off my T-shirt and hunting around for something presentable for a five-star hotel. In the background, I can hear Damien sternly telling Tiny to drop the cat figurine. Then some scuffling. I imagine Damien is trying to take it away. Tiny must think this is the best game ever.

Laughing to myself, I zip up a flowy pastel skirt. The blouse I want to wear with it, however, has buttons up the back that are just beyond my reach.

“Now, Tiny,” I hear Damien saying to my dog. “You’re going to upset your friend here. Do you really want that?”

Tiny whines and there’s a clunk as the figurine drops to the floor. I can’t hide my surprise as I step out of the bedroom with my blouse half-undone. “Did you just reason my dog into dropping his prize? I can’t believe that worked.”

Damien snatches the figurine off the floor and replaces it on the windowsill, his glare daring Mingo to knock it off again. “Honestly, I can’t, either.”

Spike licks Damien’s jacket and, in an act of giving up, Damien finally pets him. Spike is so excited his entire little body shakes with his wagging tail. I catch Damien’s uncertain look and stifle a laugh. “Don’t worry. He’s not having a seizure, he’s just happy.”

“Let me guess,” Damien sighs, shaking his head. “Another rescue?”

I nod. “His owner got rid of him just because he’s a little incontinent. Who does that to a dog they’ve had for four years? A pet is a lifelong commitment.”

Damien nods. “I agree.” He looks up at me, then at my loose blouse. “Wardrobe malfunction?”

“I can’t button it all the way up,” I reply, exasperated. I grin at him. “Would you mind helping me?”

His attempt at thwarting the interloper having failed, Mingo smacks Damien on the back of the head with his paw and meows loudly.

“Hey, watch it, cat. I’m not too fond of you yet, either.” Damien grunts and stands. He looks at me as his gaze softens. “No. I wouldn’t mind helping you at all.”

“That’s Mingo. Sorry, he’s a bit warier of strangers than the others.” I laugh. I stop laughing when Damien comes up behind me. Without speaking he gathers my hair and moves it over my shoulder to give him better access to my blouse.

"Hold still," he says, his voice low, his breath warm as it skates over my nape.

I try not to react when his fingertips brush against my bare skin, but my body betrays me with a small shiver.

He pauses for a split second. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I manage, grateful he can't see my face.

As he works his way up my spine, each button becomes an exercise in restraint—my own. His knuckles graze my skin with deliberate precision, professional yet somehow intimate. I focus on my breathing, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body so close behind me. All I want to do is lean back and feel him against me again. I crave the feeling of his arms, his lips. His hardness and his heat.

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