We were like two boxers in the ring. We could have sold popcorn. And I kept digging and digging, ignoring the look of fury on Elián’s face.
“To summarize,” Luna said shortly, “I’d like to come work at Lucky Dog a few days a week. Film it. Bring the world to your mission. Raise you an exorbitant amount of money while doing so. And you’re saying…”
“No,” I said.
Elián looked away from me—which caused a stabbing sensation in my chest. I’d seen my own father have these same stubborn impulses, running the MC with a streak of angry pride.
But I wasn’t going to be indebted. Not to anyone. And especially not to someone just trying to use me.
Luna looked almost sad for a second. But she tossed her long, wavy hair. Turned away from me to shake Elián’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Hopefully we’ll meet again. Say goodbye to Jem and Wes for me, will you?”
“I will,” Elián said. I tried not to notice that Luna had remembered everyone’s name. She and her team swept out of the room, taking all of the light with them.
Elián closed the door but didn’t turn to me.
“Listen,” I started to say, “hear me out—”
“You know that stray from the beach?” he said.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, startled by the misdirect.
“She’s here and terrified. Jem needs your help. I’ve got another intake to take care of.”
I rubbed my beard. “Okay. I’ll go help her. We’re cool though, right?”
Elián opened the door, backing out of it with his palms up. “You just sent our last chance out the door.”
“You know having my picture online is a complication,” I said. “It’s been twenty years but I’m pretty damn sure my family is always watching. You think the Devils would let their prodigal son partner with a goddamn billionaire and leave him be?”
Elián paused with the door half-open. “You’re the one who always says you refuse to let that family dictate who you are,” he said. “And now you’re letting that fear dictate the future of Lucky Dog. Besides, you don’t have to be online. But our mission could. The dogs could. All the hope that we create here—no one knows about it. Because you keep it a secret.”
“Elián, that’s not—” I began. But he was already gone, leaving me to sink down into my donated desk chair, defeated. I focused on the fading Polaroid of Willow I had taped to my computer. It was taken a week before we both graduated from our Positive Results program at Miami-Dade Correctional Facility’s juvenile detention program. For more than six months, I worked with Willow, who’d been a giant, terrified, snappy pit-bull mix days away from euthanization when she was placed in my care.
Unconditional love didn’t exist in the Mason household. Caring for a living creature was new to me. In the picture, I’m eighteen years old, tall and rangy. We are both transformed. Willow into a dog that is calm, gentle. And me looking confident—knowing that after I got out I didn’t have to return to the MC. Could make my own way, free of their stranglehold on me.
Now I felt like shit. What was my goddamn plan, after all? A hundred dogs like Willow were going to come through our doors and if we didn’t have enough money, where were they going to go?
I rapped my knuckles on the table.
I knew where they’d go.
Out the window, I saw Jem waving, pointing to Kennel #7. I shut off my computer, closed the file of financial paperwork, and prepared to distract myself.
Luckily, Luna da Rosa had left—because I wasn’t sure I could face her anyway.
9
Luna
When was the last time I’d been rattled by a man?
Beck Mason had been trying to scare me, and even though I’d never scared easily, I was still upset that I couldn’t work here. It was clear they needed help, the whole place screamed grassroots in a way that was endearing but also concerning. This place, these dogs, deserved to thrive and I wasn’t sure why he’d pushed back so hard—why he’d been put off at the idea of us both benefitting from each other.
It wasn’t using if both people got what they needed. That was called smart business.
There was a shiny Harley Davidson in the parking lot and I assumed it was Beck’s. Sylvia had said he was no longer involved with his family, but maybe he still rode his bike. His whole vibe screamed tough-as-nails motorcycle gang member and he was, quite literally, the most colossal person I’d ever seen. He was white, about forty—almost a decade older than me. His shaggy, dirty-blond hair was the same color as his thick beard. And those midnight-blue eyes betrayed only one emotion during our entire stand-off: judgment.
Well, that and a pride I recognized because it mirrored my own. But every time I felt an empathetic urge to reach out, tell him I’ve been there, he’d cross his thick arms over that barrel chest and all I wanted to do was fight back.
Pride versus pride.
I toed my flip-flop through the dirt and the brown grass, eyed the dilapidated equipment. Beck’s entire office was the size of the bathrooms at Wild Heart. We didn’t use donated pens or computers that were 10 years old. I’d had that twitchy feeling again during my face-off with the shaggy jerk.
More evidence of my shift, I guessed.
“I knew Sylvia’s idea was a bad one,” Jasmine said next to me, fingers flying over her phone. I blew out a breath, stared around me at the kennels filled with dogs getting a second chance at life. They were all shapes and sizes, skittish and confident, healthy and scared, big and small. Even as my heart called out to them, the billionaire devil on my shoulder begged for me to let it go.
“Beck’s background is a complication anyway,” I said, more to myself than to Jasmine. Bella, the security guard I employed at Bluewater, was scanning the environment as if she expected a roving band of bikers to appear at any second. “And him clearly not liking me wouldn’t make for a strategic partnership.”
“Exactly,” Jasmine said, laying a hand on my arm.
Sylvia’s presumed disappointment hung in the air between us.
Right decision or safe decision?
“It’s not like I didn’t try. The executive director said no, so we don’t really have an additional recourse,” I was saying—still trying to convince myself. We were heading toward the car but my attention kept snagging on a kennel in the far back—a flash of tan fur I vaguely recognized.
“Luna?” Jasmine prodded. I was frozen in my flip-flops, staring at the shabby-looking kennel with #7 painted over the door.
“Wait here,” I said slowly, moving toward that #7.
Because it couldn’t be, right? I’d left her barely three hours ago on the beach, terrified and shaking behind a palm tree.
But there in one corner, shaking and snapping, was my sweet, beautiful beach mutt. I’d have known that mangy fur anywhere.
Penelope.
And in the corner, crouched like the incredible Hulk, was Beck.
“Hey there, pretty girl,” I crooned, fingers hooked into the grate. Like this morning, her ear lifted. She was still shaking, but her eyes went to mine for the first time ever. She stilled.
“What are you doing here?” Beck asked, shock on his face.
“It’s Penelope,” I said, giant grin blooming. “Can I come in?” All frustration toward him was disappearing with the sudden appearance of my dog.
Beck looked between Penelope and me. Hesitated.
“Okay.” He reached over from his spot in the corner and opened the latch. I slid through, careful not to disturb the terrified stray in the corner. Next to her was a cheery yellow bowl that said you are my sunshine.
“Is that your food bowl?” I asked. I sat next to him, careful not to touch. It was like sitting next to an actual mountain, except he smelled like fresh soap and bourbon.
“Yeah, it is,” he said. Beck had a voice as deep as a canyon.
I pulled up a photo on my phone, scrolling until I found one of Penelope and her food bowl. “See?”
He looked do
wn to the small screen, then back at me.
“I’ve been feeding her for six months now. I named her because I thought it was really sad that she didn’t have a name, on top of not having a family or love or food or a warm place to go at night.”
Beck was still staring at me—and I saw a spark of contrition.
“I’ve been feeding her too,” he said gruffly. “Trying to earn her trust so I could bring her here.”
“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you,” I said. “I would have remembered seeing a grumpy, leather-wearing biker acting like a jerk outside my office.”
Beneath his beard, I thought I saw his lips twitch. “That’s your offices? That white industrial building on Ocean Drive?”
“Our headquarters,” I said. “We should have protesters there any day now because of the Ferris Mark news. I’m happy you got Penelope out of there. I’d have been devastated if she left because of the people.”
“I think she’s a candidate for rehabilitation,” he said. “I mean, um… she can change.”
My heart squeezed painfully. “I think she can change too. How does the rehabilitation process start?”
Beck cleared his throat again. “Hand-feeding. It builds trust quickly.”
“Can I try?”
He was surprised. “Let me get you some food.”
I watched the white shirt he was wearing stretch across the wide expanse of his shoulders. I could feel dirt staining my skirt, my flip-flops, and repressed the urge to flinch from it. Because I never used to care. But my perfectly-distressed sandals had cost me a grand, and I didn’t even know how much I’d paid for this skirt. But it was designer, high-end, and scraping it across mud and dog shit wasn’t the best idea.
I think you should do good just to do it.
I’d wanted to flinch at that too—his words had struck a spiky nerve.
I held out my palm, my pricey rings glittering in the sun, and Beck filled my palm with food. Before he could caution me, I let my heart guide me across the kennel, smearing as much dirt across my skirt as possible. And it didn’t feel wrong.
Not in the least.
I crooned soft noises at her, hand outstretched.
“Stop there,” Beck said gently. “Not too close.”
I nodded but didn’t turn around. I kept non-threatening eye contact with my girl. She sniffed her way over and took three tentative bites of food. I almost squealed with happiness—but stopped myself.
Penelope scrambled over to her corner, tail between her legs.
“Now come back,” Beck instructed.
I beamed at him. “Did you see that?” I said. Without thinking, I gripped the sleeve of his shirt, twisting it. “She ate from my hand, Mr. Mason.”
A genuine smile broke across his face. “She likes you. That’s… great.”
Jasmine was staring at me in horror—probably because I was smeared with mud and clutching a giant stranger.
“You can call me Beck, by the way,” he said.
“Grumpy Bearded Jerk is a bit of a mouthful,” I admitted.
Another twitch of the lips. “Do you… I mean, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“That gonna be a problem?” he asked, glancing toward Bella. Then down to the gold encircling my fingers.
“A problem for what?” I asked.
But he didn’t say more. So I stood up, brushing all the dirt I could manage from the skirt. I sensed our conversation was over. Or about to be.
“Luna.”
“Yes?” I said, turning around to dust off my ass.
Another long look from Beck. “I don’t like being exposed the way you are exposed every day. It makes me uncomfortable. And I’m a stubborn bastard about it.”
I bit my lip, leaning against the gate. “I get it. You don’t like feeling like you owe anyone.”
Understanding flooded his features. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Jasmine was trying to flag me over but I shook my head at her.
“If we’re going to work together, you need to know that I hate pity,” he said.
I was momentarily stunned—was Beck considering working with me after all?
“If we’re going to… work together?” I ventured, smiling a little.
“The second part of what I said is more important,” he replied firmly.
That felt directed at me, which made me feel uncomfortable. Had I been obvious back there in his office? My discomfort?
“Okay,” I said. “What if I tried my hardest to make it so people don’t pity you?”
Beck didn’t answer. I thought about what he’d accused me of back in his office—using him to rehabilitate my own image.
“You think I’m going to use you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He was a one-word kind of guy—and that one word hit its intended mark. And I knew what he meant, and I knew how it looked, but I needed him to know I wasn’t actually like that.
“You know I used to take care of feral cats when I was a kid,” I said, toeing the dirt. “In my backyard. I fed them.”
Beck’s blue eyes softened an iota.
“Every weekend, my parents used to have me pick a nonprofit in Miami and we’d go volunteer. Homeless shelters, foster youth programs, animal shelters, parks, prisons… you name it, I’ve done it,” I continued. I twisted one of my gold rings, studied Penelope, cowering in the corner. Beck was still silent.
“Listen, I personally signed off on a work order that led to six years’ worth of animal cruelty so that I could make money from makeup.” My cheeks blazed like the sun above. This felt awful, this churning, anxious, horrible sensation coursing through me. “Let me do a little good now. Here. With you and… and Penelope.”
I’d been raised by parents who believed in signs from the universe—and if the appearance of Penelope wasn’t a sign that Lucky Dog was the place for me, I wasn’t sure what was.
Beck’s throat worked as he stared up at me. He let out an irritable sigh. “I’m… sorry. For back there. What I said. I feel like an asshole. People shouldn’t judge you like that.”
His apology surprised me. He didn’t seem the type. “Hazard of the job, I’m afraid,” I shrugged. “It happens.”
“Well, it shouldn’t,” he said firmly.
“I agree with you.”
There was a long, staring stand-off between us before he said, “I don’t want it to look like we’re begging.”
“My goal would be inspirational,” I promised. “Positive. Not embarrassing.”
“And I won’t be on camera.” Beck gave me his hardest stare, his I’m scaring you stare, but I only lifted my chin.
“I can agree to that,” I said. “I won’t film you, I promise. But I will take videos of the dogs and the families on their adoption day. And I get to take five pictures a day.”
“Two,” he said.
“Four.”
“One,” he glowered.
“Didn’t you promise me you’d never be a grumpy jerk again?”
“Pretty sure I just apologized for being one. Not that it wouldn’t repeat.”
“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, huh?”
Challenge flared in his eyes. Delight. His mouth was tipping into another smile.
“Three pictures and you can film the adoptions,” he conceded.
I held up another finger. “Four.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re good at that?” he asked.
“All the time,” I replied. “If I work here, can I help with Penelope?”
Beck tilted his head. “Um… sure. Yeah.”
“Two people feeding her these past months means she’s gotten twice as much love.”
Beck and I shared a quick smile. He was peering at me like I was a strange curio in a thrift store.
“To mutually beneficial partnerships,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. His fingers were so long they rested on my wrist. We shook, his fingers dragging down my skin, and it mu
st have been the sticky heat and my sudden elation.
Because I felt the tip of each finger.
10
Luna
Cameron was perched on my desk, legs crossed gracefully, auburn hair loose around her shoulders. She was dressed to the nines in a power suit and killer, hot-red stilettos. And she was sweet enough to stop by my office before her next meeting.
“Drink this,” she said, placing a large ginger tea in my hand. “It’ll make you feel less nervous. And if I see you reach for those Fritos, I’ll slap them out of your hand.”
I sipped as I was told. Wrinkled my nose at her.
My apology press conference was starting in half an hour.
“Okay,” I exhaled, inhaled ginger. “You can read them.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded solemnly.
“Listen, they’re ridiculous. I can tell that just from scrolling.” I hadn’t stopped my active social media presence since the news had broken—and after today, a formal and official apology would be broadcast across every site. But I’d figured… what was the harm in continuing to post videos of my yoga poses?
Oh, how wrong I was.
“How do you spell hypocrite?” Cameron quoted. “L-u-n-a.” She rolled her eyes. “That one’s really stupid.”
I smiled a little. “Yeah, it is.”
“Okay, um… how about I always knew there was a whole lot of ugly under all of that makeup.”
I winced. Cameron caught it.
“Sorry,” she said, grabbing my shoulder.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, waving it off. “You’re making it better, I promise. I’m a human being. I can’t not be compelled to read these garbage comments. But having a best friend do it helps immeasurably.”
That and I could feel the guilt driving me toward punishment—didn’t I deserve this?
“Sheep fucker.”
“Excuse me?”
She laughed. “This one says that you’re a sheep fucker. You fuck sheep.”
I dropped my head in my hands, an insane-sounding laugh escaping my lips. “At least half of these comments are from lunatic trolls, I’m guessing?”
WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy Page 5