Please say that day is today, she thought, looking down at the client in question.
Domino sat stoically, tail wrapped around his massive feet, gazing up at her with his wet, brown doggie eyes that were so big they could persuade anyone, even the most heartless, to do something colossally stupid. Like crawl into a dog kennel that locked from the outside.
To be fair, when Shay was tired she made questionable decisions. And today she was exhausted.
As the resident saint at St. Paws Pet Rescue, not to mention top stylist to the town’s most elite and furriest residents, she had been on her feet since the crack of dawn, scrubbing down all of her canine kids in preparation for St. Paws’s monthly adoption day, and Domino had thrown a wrench into her schedule. So when he started whimpering as she steered him toward the kennel, which meant scooting all two hundred pounds of dog by his spotted Great Dane tush across the floor, she decided to climb in and show him that kennels weren’t scary—in fact, with the right kennel mate, they could be fun.
Shay retracted that statement the minute the door slammed shut and locked behind her.
“You know, with your height and retrieval skills, you could grab me the keys off the counter over there,” she said, pointing to the neon-green lanyard that was two inches out of reach.
Two inches!
“Woof.” Tail wagging, tongue lolling, Domino meandered over to the table, right past the keys, and stuck his head in a fifty-pound bag of kibble.
“That’s puppy chow. It will make your butt big, and no one wants to adopt a dog with a big butt,” Shay warned, then remembered the box of chocolate mini doughnuts she’d inhaled for lunch and made a mental note to run at least five miles tomorrow morning.
Domino, however, seemed unconcerned about his figure and stuck his head in until it disappeared in the bag. At the sound of the crinkling paper all of the dogs ran to the front of their kennels, noses pressed through the bars, straining for a handout. When none came, they started barking—all dozen of them. Which did nothing for the headache she felt coming on.
Shay was just tired enough that she actually could sleep in a dog kennel, and since she was the only stylist on the schedule today, this could easily become an all-nighter. Luckily her superpower was the ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter what—something she’d learned by her third foster home.
When the dogs’ barks reached DEFCON 1, so did her headache. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her bent knees, needing a moment.
“If you ask me, small butts are overrated,” a low and sexy voice said.
Her eyes snapped open just as a pair of rugged, manly steel-toed boots stopped at the edge of the kennel door. Shay lifted her head and looked up, way up, and—gulp—met the eyes of Jonah Baudouin.
He flashed her that department-issued smile and something low in her belly tightened. She’d like to blame it on a natural reaction to the weapon holstered at his hip or quite possibly the badge he carried, but she had a sinking feeling it had more to do with the way he filled out that uniform.
Six foot two of hard muscle on a body that was built to protect and serve, he was the perfect catch if one was into brooding hero types. But Shay didn’t do brooding or heroes, and she most certainly did not do cops.
Ones who made her tingle or otherwise.
Not that it mattered. The only reactions she seemed to inspire within him were irritation or amusement. Today he was packing both. He was also sipping on a giant-sized coffee cup that made her mouth water.
“Sheriff,” she said casually through the bars. This wasn’t her first time in the pokey.
“Deputy,” he corrected. “Still got a month before the election.”
“If you’re here soliciting for support, I have to be honest and say I’m voting for the other guy.” It was clearly a lie. Deputy “Do-Nothing” Bryant could bring a snow machine into hell and still not win. He was lazy and shady, and only had a badge because his grandpa was the current sheriff. “But since you’re here, could you hand me the keys off the grooming station behind you?”
“I’m investigating a stolen property claim,” he said, not even glancing toward the keys. “Mr. Barnwell reported his Dalmatian missing about three hours ago.” Jonah was cool and casual, not a feather ruffled in his perfectly pressed uniform. And that was a bad sign.
“How awful.” Shay placed a horrified hand to her chest.
“Yeah, awful,” he agreed mildly. “Have you seen him today?”
“Mr. Barnwell’s Dalmatian?” She shook her head, hoping she looked more baffled than guilty. “Nope.”
“You wouldn’t lie to an officer of the law, would you?”
She smiled. “Not today.”
“Huh.” He took a leisurely sip of his coffee, which she’d bet the keys to the place was a plain old-fashioned drip—no frills. “That’s odd, because a Caucasian female, wavy light brown hair, about five four and a buck twenty was seen shoving Domino into the back of a late nineties Honda Civic.”
Domino, the Great Dane, lifted his head out from the kibble bag and cocked it at the sound of his name. Then he eyed Jonah, and Shay could almost see the dog vibrating with indecision.
Kibble or doggie high five to the crotch? So many choices.
Thank God the kibble won out.
“Lots of people drive Civics,” Shay challenged, tucking a light brown wave of hair behind her ear.
“Yeah, well, only one five-foot-four Civic owner is on record claiming Mr. Barnwell to be”—eyes locked on hers, Jonah set the coffee right next to the keys and pulled a little official-looking notepad from his front shirt pocket and flipped to the middle—“cruel, criminal, and a bad neighbor with questionable hygiene.”
She’d called him a lot more in private. “Sounds like Mr. Barnwell really should brush his teeth twice a day if he intends on making a habit out of yelling in his neighbors’ faces.”
“The getaway car had a St. Paws Animal Rescue sticker on the door—”
“Getaway car? Is that official cop jargon?”
“—And the shover in question was reported to be wearing a pair of faded jeans and an orange T-shirt that read ‘I brake for squirrels.’”
He lifted his gaze and zeroed in on the squirrel on her orange shirt.
Shay crossed her arms over the cute squirrel and shrugged. “Sorry, Deputy, can’t help you.”
“Jesus, Shay,” he said, sounding all put out, like he was the one behind bars. “I’m trying to help you here. My bet is that dog is worth a few grand, which means if you have him in your possession it’s a felony. But if you hand Domino over, we will call it a day.”
Either Domino had finished all fifty pounds of kibble in record time or hearing his name again was too tempting, but he lifted his head and barked. Twice. Loudly. Then bounded across the floor at NASCAR speed, skidding to a stop at Jonah’s feet, his nose going straight to the crotch for a big, welcoming sniff.
“You want to change your statement?” he asked. “Or do I need to get out the cuffs and haul you in?”
Maybe she was more exhausted than she thought. Or maybe she’d just gone too long without a bedmate who didn’t shed, but her entire body perked up at the thought of Deputy Serious and his seriously hot cuffs. Which was annoying because uptight, by-the-book men were not her type.
Then again, it had been so long she wasn’t sure she even had a type.
An awkward silence hung between them while they glared at each other, and Domino stared between them, panting.
Breaking eye contact with Jonah, because he was better at it than her, damn it, Shay bent over to pet Domino’s head through the bars.
Domino stopped, dropped, and rolled to assume the belly rub position. She obliged the best she could, her heart going heavy when his tail slapped the floor with excitement and he looked up at her adoringly.
Domino was a lover. He needed attention, affection, love—a family who wanted him, not one obligated to feed and house him.
The perfect family was out there—she just hadn’t found it yet.
Determined, Shay stood to face down one very pissed deputy. Apparently hauling her butt in was not how he’d envisioned his afternoon going. Or more likely, it was all of the paperwork she’d just added to his plate.
“For the record, I didn’t lie. Domino is a Great Dane, not a Dalmatian. A Great Dane, Jonah, who weighs two hundred pounds.” She grabbed the bars and pressed her forehead against the cool metal. “Have you seen the size of the crate they have for him? It’s built for a Chihuahua. He can’t even stand up and he is locked in there all day long. Can you even imagine?”
“Shay,” he sighed, looking up at the ceiling as though seeking divine intervention. She got that a lot.
“It’s cruel and it’s terrible and no one will help me,” she whispered. Jonah stepped forward until she could smell the heat on his skin, and that normal cool and distant expression he wore like Kevlar softened, and so did Shay’s resolve.
“Hard to do when you go breaking into other people’s property and steal their pets.”
“I called your office three times last week when the temperatures hit surface of the sun and I had to give him water through the bars.” She didn’t mention she’d spent most of yesterday sitting by his crate, rubbing his head, and that she’d only decided to take him when Mr. Barnwell threw out the pamphlet she’d put on his doorstep about crate cruelty.
But a felony? This situation was so beyond what she could handle. Mr. Barnwell wasn’t mean, at least she didn’t think so, he was just misinformed—and stubborn.
She looked up at one of the town’s finest and admitted—silently, to herself—that she needed help. She needed his help.
And didn’t that just piss her off.
“If you promise to do something so he isn’t locked back in that crate ever again, then I promise to give him back.”
“You’re making a list of demands?” He laughed, and even though it was aimed at her, she had to admit he had a great laugh. “I have a gun and cuffs and you’re locked in a cage.”
And why did that image have her hormones short-circuiting? No wonder all the women in town pawed over him—the uniform and high-octane testosterone radiating from his every pore were a lethal combination.
“But do you have enough manpower to watch him twenty-four/seven? To make sure he doesn’t ‘run away’ again?” she said.
He braced his hands overhead on the top of the kennel’s door, his mighty fine arms bulging tight against the fabric of his shirt as his frame towered over her. He looked at her long and hard, then at the dog who was staring up at him like he would follow Jonah to the ends of the earth. Which just meant Domino thought Jonah had a stash of bacon stuffed in his pocket.
She knew the moment he gave in. His shoulders relaxed and those intense blue eyes narrowed.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll talk to Mr. Barnwell, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” With a smile, Shay stuck her arm through the bars to make their discussion official with a shake. “You can take Domino then.”
When Jonah’s big, rough hand engulfed hers, a zing of something hot raced up her arms and spread out to every happy spot she owned, and a few she’d thought she’d lost. And Shay had no business getting zings or tingles for any man, let alone this one.
Nope, Jonah Baudouin was stable, a straight shooter and, sexy or not, the soon-to-be sheriff—in a place she’d started to think of as more than a temporary stopover.
This wasn’t their first tangle over the law, and she was pretty sure, based on her history, it wouldn’t be their last. So finding out if he used those cuffs for business or pleasure wasn’t in her best interest.
She shook once and waited for him to release her hand. When he just stared at her, she snatched it back. “And I’ll try to stay out of your hair, but I can’t promise anything.”
His mouth twitched. “You do that.” He clipped a leash on Domino and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Shay.”
“Wait,” she hollered after him. “What about letting me out?”
“Call the other guy. You know, the one you’re voting for.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editors, Maria Gomez and Lindsay Guzzardo, and the rest of the Author Team at Montlake, for all of the amazing work and support throughout this series. And to my agent, Jill Marsal, for being my cheerleader and biggest critic, always pushing me to make each book as good as it can be.
As always, a special thanks to my family for living with my craziness when I am under deadline.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY TOSH TANAKA
Marina Adair is a #1 national bestselling author of romance novels. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is also the author of Sugar’s Twice as Sweet, part of the Sugar, Georgia series. She lives with her husband, daughter, and two neurotic cats in Northern California.
From the Moment We Met Page 29