Defying Our Forever (The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers Book 3)

by Claudia Burgoa

  “You’d be surprised. I’ve seen and heard so many things,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What is your story then?”

  “Let me begin by setting the record straight. He is not my dog,” I press, annoyed at her fucking insistence. “I don’t have a significant other. Furthermore, I already told you I found him like that. He’s not my responsibility, which means I won’t pay for his treatment.”

  Her body freezes, and her eyes are about to start shooting daggers at me. “Then you have to take him to a shelter because I’m not allowed to treat strays in this hospital. Unfortunately, we can’t wait to treat him, and I don’t have a machine at the shelter to get the x-rays.”

  “Wait, I’m confused. You work at the shelter or here?”

  “Both places,” she answers. “The shelter down on Santa Fe and Sixth. Obviously, the doctor is off at the moment—I’m here. So, don’t bother to go there.”

  “Listen, can I speak to the doctor?”

  Her face turns a few shades of red and her eyes are on fire. “If you say that I look like a teenager, I swear I’m going to punch you.”

  “So, you’re the doctor,” I say instead of asking if she’s a technician. Clearly, I ruffled the wrong feathers.

  “Correct,” she grunts.

  “Why can’t you treat him here?”

  She huffs. “Because we’re not a dispensary for animals. I’m quoting the owner. If I do it, I’ll get fired, which is something I can’t afford because I need to finish this internship. It’s my last step to becoming a surgeon. If I break the protocol again, I’m done, and it’ll be two years of my life wasted.”

  Well, it’s obvious that I have to cover the expenses of this poor boy if we want to save him. I pull out my wallet and get out my credit card. “Here, put this on file and charge me for whatever he needs.”

  She narrows her gaze. “Are you sure he isn’t yours?”

  “Should I swear on a Bible?”

  She finally smiles and shakes her head.

  “I’m heading to the x-ray room,” she explains. “Should I come out if he needs surgery?”

  “No, just go ahead and do it. I’ll cover all the expenses.”

  “I’m trusting that you won’t run away,” her face softens, and I feel like she just gave me something special. “Bobbi, the receptionist, should be back from her break soon. If you see Dan, the technician, send him back to the x-ray room. Can you explain to Bobbi that you brought your dog?”

  “Not my dog,” I repeat.

  Her eyes transform into some kind of pout that literally melts my insides and says, “But he has to be. As I said, I should send you on your way to a shelter.”

  I want to discuss this situation with her. If I sign something where I say he’s my dog, I’m not only going to be responsible for his bills but for him too. However, she’s gone to the next room before I can say anything. As I make my way back to the reception area, a guy a few inches shorter than me stops me.

  “Only medical personnel are allowed back here,” he growls.

  “I was just checking on my dog. There was only one person in here,” I explain, hoping I don’t get the doctor in trouble. “By the way, if you’re Dan, she said you should meet her in the x-ray room.”

  “Oh, man,” he mumbles. “The doc is going to be disappointed that I wasn’t here to help. I bet she didn’t get your information. She hates paperwork. Bobbi is back. Give her all your info. Tell her I couldn’t log into the computer when you came.”

  It’s obvious that this place is falling apart. I should’ve gone somewhere else. Then again, any other place might’ve sent me to a shelter or just let the dog die. It’s to no surprise that I spend thirty minutes filling out the forms. It’s not because I’m a terrible dog owner, as Bobbi points out, but because I had to make up lies about a dog whose name is now Buster and was probably born eight months ago.

  “You don’t know the breed of your dog?” She gives me a judgmental glance that makes me tremble.

  “It’s a mix,” I respond.

  “He’s a German Shepherd, Lab mix,” the redhead comes out of the examining room, pulls down the mask from her face, and smiles at me. The room brightens just as her eyes shine with genuine happiness. “The little guy is going to be fine. We stitched him up. There were no broken bones or internal bleeding. He’s a lucky guy. I still would like to keep him overnight if you don’t mind. You can pick him up tomorrow.”

  “You want me to pick him up?” I lean backward because as I said, I don’t have time for a dog. Most importantly, he’s not mine.

  However, if you’d like to go for dinner and to the room I booked at the Ritz Carlton, I’m game.

  Tonight is the only night I have to blow off some steam. If I don’t, I’m going to be having a hell of a time during the week. Maybe the dog dragged me here to find some variety. I wouldn’t mind spending the night with her.

  “Yes, tomorrow morning would be fine,” she responds. “If you want to take him home tonight, I can give you his care instructions.”

  “It’ll be cheaper,” Bobbi claims and turns her attention toward the redhead. “Leyla, Doctor West finally arrived. Go home.”

  “I swear when I am done with this internship, I’m never coming back. Good luck finding another sucker who doesn’t get paid and won’t care that he arrives three hours late,” she grins.

  “You’ll be missed, or maybe you’ll open your own practice and I’ll follow you,” Bobbi answers. “Go change and head home. You’ve been here for almost twenty-four hours.”

  Leyla sighs and looks at me. “Can you take him home? If not, I’ll stay here to watch over him.”

  “Stop finding side gigs and go home,” Bobbi insists. “Hopefully Dan and Dr. West will keep an eye on him.”

  “Sure, I can take care of him,” I say, and she smiles.

  And fuck if that face doesn’t knock me down and shifts me from my entire axis.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll get Dan to work on his discharge paperwork and the medicines you need to get home. I’ll help you take him to your car.”

  “Stay away from her,” Bobbi snaps at me. “She’s not your type.”

  “What is that?”

  “Just, stay away,” she warns me.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m heading to my car with Buster, a detailed list of what medicines to give him, step by step instructions on how to clean his wounds, and a cone for tomorrow.

  “You should come with me,” I say, as Leyla walks me to my car.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure if you are aware, but I don’t have anything in my apartment to take care of this dog,” I remind her. “He’s not mine.”

  She yawns. “I’ll tell you what, let’s go to the grocery store. Those are usually open until late at night. They have pet supplies. We’ll be able to find enough things to cover you for the night. If you let me crash on your couch, I’ll help you keep an eye on him. Tomorrow we’ll set this kid up with everything he needs. I’ll even help you train him free of charge.”

  I love the idea of having her for the night. What we’d be doing has nothing to do with the dog and everything to do with her. I’d concentrate on kissing her full, lush mouth. My hands are already itching to touch her toned curves. I make a bet with myself that her perfect tits are small, round, and perky. I could fit them in my mouth and suck them while I fuck her hard.

  “Sorry, are you having a conversation with my boobs?” She snaps her fingers and lifts her hand all the way up to her eyes. “How would you feel if I stared at your dick while we talk?”

  I smirk at her. “Well, it depends what we’re discussing? If it’s a blowjob—”

  “Stop it right now,” she orders. “Can we focus on the dog?”

  “Buster,” I say.

  “What?”

  “His name is now Buster,” I claim.

  She looks at the sleepy dog and pets him. “That’s perfect. He’s such a nice guy. Whoever ditched him on the road is an asshol
e.”

  “Why do you assume?” I ask. Up until now I haven’t thought about his origin. I just assumed he was injured and needed to go to the hospital. “His owner is probably looking for him. He got lost, someone ran over him, and I rescued him.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, the puppy is malnourished, and he doesn’t have a chip,” she explains. “At first, I thought maybe he left home a couple of weeks ago. That’s when I found a couple of old scars. I had Dan do a search for lost dogs around the city and no one is looking for him.”

  “He’s sleeping. Maybe we should take him home before he wakes up,” I suggest, hoping that once we arrive at my place I can convince her to do more than just sleeping on my couch.

  “I sedated him,” she explains. “With that and the pain medication I sent, he’s going to be drowsy for a couple of days. It gives you plenty of time to puppy proof your place.”

  “I’m sorry, but you forgot a very important fact,” I remind her.

  “Which is?”

  “My job is too demanding. I don’t have time for him—or any pet,” I press the flaws of this plan she’s concocted. “Just because I get along with animals doesn’t mean I have time to save them.”

  “I promise that once he recovers, I’ll find him a forever home. I’m good at that.”

  “Why can’t you take him?”

  “Because I live in a building that doesn’t allow pets,” she answers. “Plus, as you heard, I tend to spend too much time at work. It’s not as if I can take my work home. I bet you can.”

  I look at the dog, then at her, and sigh.

  “Fine, but don’t think I’m going to be taking care of him for more than a couple of weeks.”

  She smiles at me, and fuck if I don’t feel like I just achieved my only goal in life.

  Chapter Two

  Leyla

  My therapist says I am an extremist when it comes to taking care of myself. Sometimes I’m super cautious while others I’m too damn reckless. To be honest, I don’t care much about my safety. I should fire her because it’s evident that she doesn’t understand survivor guilt. I try to save everyone because technically, I shouldn’t be alive.

  Do I consider my safety while doing it? Never, because I’m busy taking care of other people. Today’s example is Buster.

  This pup has been through hell in one night, or maybe since his original owner lost him or dumped him. I’m certainly not leaving him with a guy who is clueless about his care. Am I suspicious about his involvement with the dog? Of course. I will be checking the outside of the car for any blood.

  If he’s not guilty, his hot factor will increase from a hundred to a gazillion percent.

  On a scale of handsome to you’re-so-gorgeous-I-want-you-tonight, the guy is ravishingly-sexy-I-want-to-have-your-babies. I’m not sure if that’s a real scale, but we can certainly create it for him.

  He’s tall. I’m sure he’s a foot taller than my five foot three. He’s either a swimmer or played football in high school and college. The guy has broad shoulders, and if I rip off his clothes, I’ll find cut, ripped muscles underneath. His dark hair is cut short, and I bet he went to some fancy salon in Denver to get that hot looking trim.

  Strong features, a five o’clock shadow that would feel great running between my thighs, and his eyes… I wish I had long, curled, thick lashes like his. His forest green eyes are piercing, heart and soul sucking gems that make my heart stop every time they meet mine. I bet he breaks hearts on a weekly basis.

  Oh, God. This was a bad idea. Why did I agree to go to his house?

  After almost a year without sex, it’s stupid to go grocery shopping with a hot man like him—and without eating for nearly twenty-four hours. I’m going to be drooling the entire night or just jumping him because who wouldn’t want to get on top of that guy and ride him?

  Leyla, behave!

  “So, what do you want to do first? The grocery store or my house?”

  I chuckle. Isn’t this ironic. We have to go shopping, and I am starving. I could eat anything that we see—including him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking that I haven’t set foot in a grocery store in a long time,” I state.

  “Well, it’s your lucky night. I’ll remind you how good it is and make it an unforgettable experience,” he says with a raspy voice. He turns my way briefly and winks at me.

  My pulse spikes because wouldn’t it be nice to have an unforgettable experience with a man like him?

  I bet this guy knows how to do everything just right and pleasurable. He looks like he’s in his thirties. He’s definitely a player.

  Maybe he’s a serial killer, and he’s dragging you to his lair with a puppy.

  “So, I know this is a dumb question since I’m in your car and agreed to go to your house but…what’s your name?”

  “Remind me to lecture you about self-preservation when we get to my place,” he says. “Why would you just agree to go with a stranger without getting at least his license plate?”

  “Well, I texted Bobbi that I was going home with you,” I inform him. “She has your personal information. I’m sure if I turn up dead somewhere between here and Colorado Springs, they’ll be knocking at your door.”

  At that exact moment, he’s pulling into a parking space. Once he turns off the ignition, he looks at me and laughs. “I like you,” he says, grazing his fingers along my arm.

  Goosebumps rise along my skin, and my blood pumps faster. I could say it’s the unseasonably cold breeze of late August, but I know better than to play stupid. I have this strange reaction to his voice, his presence, and his touch. I do not doubt that we could combust the entire city if we explore each other.

  Be reckless, Leyla. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Just like earlier, he opens the passenger door for me. If I were keeping a list of qualifications, I’d add “gentleman” to it. His grasp is firm, and once I’m out of the car, he shakes my hand and says, “Pierce Griffin Aldridge.”

  “Leyla,” I answer, staring at his hand swallowing mine.

  Is it weird that I like him touching me?

  “No last name?” he asks.

  “It’s complicated,” I answer. “It’s more like a need-to-know basis.”

  “So, like a fifth date kind of information exchange?”

  “Probably a third-year anniversary confession,” I joke.

  “By then you might have my last name, and what’s the point of even discussing it, right?”

  I chuckle and nod. “Clearly, we understand each other. In any case, we can’t leave Buster in the car for too long. Let’s do this fast.”

  The good thing about grocery stores is that they have everything needed for pets in a couple of aisles. Unfortunately, they don’t have much to choose from.

  “Tomorrow, you can go to the pet shop I like,” I inform Pierce as he drives us to his house.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t have pets. Why would you have a favorite?” he questions suspiciously.

  “Yes, but as a veterinarian, I need to know where to send people, don’t you think?”

  “Sensible,” he agrees with me. “So, can you explain what you are? A vet, a surgeon, an intern—”

  “Complicated,” I respond.

  The less we know about each other, the better.

  “I’ll find out,” he says, but it’s more like he warns me.

  It doesn’t surprise me that he pulls into the underground garage of one of the most exclusive high rises in Denver. Just when I thought he could be somehow different, he proves me wrong. And what do you know, he lives in one of the penthouses. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall showcases the view of the city and maybe the mountains, but it’s too dark to see them. Looking at the ground floor, I spot a swimming pool.

  “This is better than a hotel,” I say, following him to what I believe is his home office. There’s not much in there: tw
o bookcases, a desk, and a chair. I set up the new bed for Buster, and he places him on top of it.

  I’m tempted to tell him that though his apartment is gorgeous, Buster needs a bigger space. He might think this is temporary but I can see these two getting along. This should be his forever home. Now, the guy is going to be around 85-90 pounds and 27 inches tall. Maybe that’s a conversation for another day.

  Not that I should talk to him about what’s to come in the next few weeks and months while he and the pup get to know each other. We are just two strangers who are thinking about the well-being of a dog. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading home and will never see him again.

  “Wine, beer, water?” he asks, heading to his open kitchen. There’s a tall counter in the middle with hanging lamps over it that gives it the feel of a bar. I take a seat on one of the barstools and look around the place.

  The stylish leather couches and dark furniture perfectly match the dark wood floors. It’s simple and classy.

  “I should say ‘water,’ but I could use a glass of wine,” I accept.

  “Have you had dinner yet?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I answer.

  “I take that as, ‘Yes, I’d like dinner, but I won’t accept food from you.’ I’m sure if I ask what you’re in the mood for, you’ll answer with ‘Whatever,’” he states. “Once I offer pizza, you’re going to say, ‘No, I’m vegan.’ Then, I’ll have to search for bread and peanut butter because that’s all I have to offer.”

  “Ha, as if,” I protest. “I’m a picky eater, so I wouldn’t let you just choose my food. Pizza wouldn’t be my first choice—some places don’t know how to cook the crust. We barely know each other. How can you expect us to compromise on which toppings we’ll add or if we want extra cheese or no cheese?”

  “You’re vegetarian,” he assumes.

  “Why would I be vegetarian?” I challenge him.

  He looks at me and shrugs. “You seem like a tree hugger, cow lover, carrot eater.”

  I glance at myself. I dress like any average twenty-six-year-old: t-shirts, hoodies, jeans, and comfortable shoes. If I were wearing one of my peasant blouses I would understand his assumption. Then again, this guy might be used to women who wear tight dresses, high heels, and do more than comb their hair after they shower.