I’d always dreamed my first car ride would be like Cash Cab and I’d make it to my home, rolling in dough. But my ride got cut short . . .
—FEMALE BOXER, FOUR YEARS OLD, SHELTER #S75230
ALL MY LIFE I’d wondered what the world looked like beyond my chain. I’d fantasized that the places on television were real and I might get to experience running through a forest or sleeping in a clean home.
Never in my wildest fantasies did I imagine I would get stuck in a Sarah McLachlan commercial of save the shelter animals—for real. Yes, I was now officially the cowering animal inside a kennel run.
Roll the cameras.
I’d let my guard down with the peppermint lady that the policeman called Mary Hannah. She did something worse than loop a chain around my neck. I was stuck with a needle. Then they dragged me outside and stuffed me inside a crate. I felt betrayed.
Terrified.
Even with the knockout drugs they pumped in my system, I couldn’t stop trembling because I’d never left the cabin or yard before. The shelter was technically better—cleaner—than my old home and no one yelled at me. But it was so foreign. I didn’t understand the rules.
How strange that there had been a comfort in the monotonous routine of my awful past life. A talk-show psychiatrist would have said I was suffering from battered-woman syndrome.
I just knew I was scared shitless. Literally. I pooped in fear when one of the workers put a bowl of kibble in my kennel.
Even with the Christmas music playing, I could hear the dogs from the cabin in the other kennel runs. But they kept us separated—something about detoxing and temperament tests. I knew from my TV watching that answering quiz-show questions incorrectly meant failure. Booted off the show. No prize. Huge disappointment.
What would that mean for me? I knew it couldn’t be good. Except there wasn’t anything for me to study, even if I could have stopped shaking long enough to ask. My heart pounded so hard it made me too ill to eat. Not that I could crawl out of my corner.
My eyes were closed, but I stayed awake long after the lights went out and the workers left. Breathing in the scent of bleach. Listening to the soft holiday music.
Until I surrendered to the groggy pull of those knockout injections.
* * *
AJ STEERED HIS restored Harvester Scout through the dark snowy streets. The road was mostly deserted other than a snowplow, a couple of trucks and a car abandoned in a ditch. Lampposts with wreaths lined the sidewalks, white lights twinkling in trees and store windows. Tools rattled in the back along with fishing poles and a jack. Standard mess.
With the not-standard addition of Mary Hannah Gallo sitting beside him, rocking the hell out of sweats and a blanket patterned with dog paws draped over her legs. She stared out the window, tracing one finger along the condensation. Her sleek brown hair was almost dry. He’d cranked the heater on high, the vents lifting stray hairs around her face like some kind of mystical aura.
He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to drive her home. He could have paid for her cab, driven to the station to file his report—then gone straight to bed. But somehow, when Wyatt had made the latest transparent effort to pair them up, AJ had gone along. It had been almost comical. Except he wasn’t in a laughing mood today.
The whole meth-house raid had him off-kilter. This day needed to be over, and yet he found himself extending the time he spent with the one woman who managed to get under his skin. When it looked like Mary Hannah would turn down his offer, he’d been too damn disappointed. He couldn’t deny that he wanted to see her messy again.
Mary Hannah turned from the window and held her hands in front of the heater vents. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome. I’m surprised you didn’t put up more of a fight.” He downshifted to gain traction along the ice as he turned a corner, the scenery shifting from shops to housing.
The holiday decor grew less coordinated; colored lights lined one roof. A big plastic Santa glowed beside the chimney of another. A crèche was lit by a spotlight in front of brick home with a driveway full of cars. Next door, a bundled-up man shoveled the walkway. Outside, the world was . . . normal. Cheerful.
“Everyone else has families and out-of-town guests. Parties to attend.” She pointed to all the cars parked in front of houses. “It seemed wrong to ask them to wait around longer because I would have preferred to call a taxi.”
“That’s logical,” he answered offhandedly.
“Is that a dig? Like with the blanket?”
He glanced at her in surprise. He hadn’t expected a stray comment from him would affect her.
“Just an observation.” He tapped his temple and added a smile for good measure. “Purely from a detective’s objective perspective.”
“Right, sorry for being defensive.” She relaxed back into her seat, looking at ease for the first time since she’d stepped into his vehicle. “What else does your detective’s intuition tell you about me?”
He thought for a moment, envisioning her life, her apartment. Thinking about Mary Hannah and “Francesca.” Better to stick with the Mary Hannah side for now. “That your cabinets are alphabetized. You’re stylish but thrifty, which cycles back around to that organization. You don’t let things go to waste.”
“I like myself the more and more you say.”
He laughed, glancing at her and taking in the way her eyes lit up the night. “Now, I wouldn’t have guessed you have a sense of humor.”
Her smile went tight. “We all have our secrets.”
“That we do, Francesca.”
Her breath hitched, then she cleared her throat. “My career gives me insights into people, too.”
Okay, mentions of Francesca were still off-limits. “Bet that takes all the fun out of dating.”
“Or it saves me from more messy breakups.”
“More?”
“I’m divorced,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Wyatt and Lacey never mentioned it.” And he genuinely was sorry. He’d experienced firsthand how much broken relationships hurt like hell even when the end was inevitable and completely right. “Does he live around here?”
“No, he moved away with his new wife.” She picked at the edge of the blanket. “They live in Ohio and have a baby on the way.”
“Are you okay about that?”
“Of course,” she answered too quickly.
This conversation was getting heavy, fast. He needed to lighten the mood again. “So, Dr. Freud, what has your psychiatric intuition discerned about me?”
“That you’re moody,” she said without hesitation.
“A doorknob could figure that out.” He tugged a lock of her hair again. “Come on. Play along.”
The strands were even silkier dry, like whispery threads against his skin. He let go and put his attention back on the road, headlights pointed toward the tire-worn ruts in the ice.
“Fine, AJ. You want more?” She counted off on her fingers. “You’re a loner, but I would guess you haven’t always been. Something happened to send you running here,” she continued with unerring accuracy. “Your family is large and tight-knit. That’s why, even in your need for space, you still gravitated toward your cousin. Am I right?”
Too right. So much so he would almost think his cousin had been talking too much, except he trusted Wyatt. And Mary Hannah had such a wholesome honesty to her that he knew she wouldn’t cheat, even at a simple guessing game.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I was expecting more answers like you noticed I’m messy and eat a lot of carry-out food.”
“Rookie info I could find from a simple search.” She tucked her hand into the cup holder and pulled out an empty fast-food wrapper. “I bet I would find more like this under the seat. Or some empty soda cans rattling around with those tools in the back.”
“If we’re doing background searches, I would bet money you belonged to a sorority. Alpha Mega Hot.”
She burst out laughing. “Has that line ever worked on a woman before?”
“It’s an original, just for you.” He winked, stunned she hadn’t gotten mad, that she had an ability to take a joke about herself. That made her even hotter. He scrubbed a hand along his stubbly jaw. “You’re just so . . . perfect. I can almost see you wearing pearls with that sweatshirt.”
“Why is that a bad thing? Pearls are the universal accessory.”
“I’m right?” He glanced at her and saw . . . he was right. “You wear pearls with sweatshirts?”
“A T-shirt, actually. Once. It was pink. It called for pearls. And they were fakes—good quality, though.” Her lips went prissy tight again in a way that had him thinking of ways to ease them, part them open.
His body went hard at the thought, and he shifted in his seat. “Of course. The very best quality.”
“Do you always deflect stress with smart-ass comments?”
Good question. And he wasn’t anywhere near giving her the full answer about why his brain was as tangled as last year’s Christmas lights.
Still, he owed her some kind of explanation. “What went down today—it was a crappy way to spend any day, much less Christmas Eve. I’m sorry if that’s made me irritable.”
“Apology accepted. I’m sorry you got roped into taxiing me around.”
“No worries.” He glanced at her. “And to be honest, it’s probably time we declare a truce. Let the past be the past.”
Her eyes went wide. “As in forgotten? No more veiled references and ‘accidental’ touches to make me uncomfortable?”
Was that what he’d been doing? Probably. “Yes, a legit cease-fire. We join forces to shut down the matchmakers.”
He steered the off-road vehicle onto the two-lane county road that led to the Second Chance Ranch, located just outside of town. Lights grew dimmer, traffic sparser. The Christmas decorations were farther from the street and farther apart.
She half turned in her seat, hints of peppermint drifting from her, overriding the lemon scent of his air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. “That would be incredible if we could pull it off.”
“If anyone can pull off the impossible, you can.”
She angled back. “Is that another dig or a compliment?”
“Hey, I just mean you’re extremely competent.”
She laughed softly. “Bite me.”
The last two words hung there in the air. Sexy. Edgy.
And leaving him seconds away from breaking the truce before it started.
He turned from the county road into the driveway leading to the Second Chance Ranch. A security gate stopped them from traveling up the long dirt path leading to the white farmhouse. The Scout’s engine rumbled in the night, the lights trained on the gate with a wreath in the middle. He jammed the Scout into park. He just needed to roll down the window and press the speaker call button.
But he didn’t.
He turned in his seat to face her, the leather squeaking. His body ached from the attraction that had damn near knocked him on his ass earlier today. He saw the answering flicker in her brown eyes and wondered what she would do if he pulled those glasses from her face—to hell with the truce—and kissed her.