“I want to.” She met my eyes again, and the spark was back. “Plus, unless you have extra arms, you’re going to need someone to hold doors.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“Help me unload,” I said, “and I’ll take you somewhere we can find out where your friend’s staying.”
“Seriously?”
“There’s a bar up the road. The Wildwood Valley Roadhouse. If anyone knows, it’ll be the locals there.”
Her entire face lit up, and the effect hit harder than it should have. “That would be amazing,” she said. “Thank you.”
She headed for my truck without waiting for me to respond. I followed, watching the confident way she moved now, like this was exactly where she was supposed to be.
As I dropped the tailgate and unlatched the first kennel, she crouched beside me. Inside, a German Shepherd mix pressed toward the back of the crate, wary eyes tracking every movement.
“Hey there,” Josie said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Something shifted in my chest at the sound of her voice. The patience in it. The care.
I’d spent twelve years living alone in a cabin, keeping my world small and quiet for a reason. Depending on people led to disappointment. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.
But standing there in the dark, watching her talk gently to a scared dog she’d just met, something came alive in me—something I’d locked away so long I’d nearly forgotten it existed.
Josie Brennan had walked into my life less than half an hour ago, and already the idea of her walking back out of it felt wrong. That realization should have scared the hell out of me. Instead, it felt like the first honest thing I’d known in years.
2
JOSIE
The German Shepherd wouldn’t come out of his kennel.
I’d been crouching in front of him for a solid two minutes, talking in the soft, coaxing voice people used on frightened animals. He just stared back at me with dark, intelligent eyes, his body pressed against the far end of the crate like he was trying to disappear into the metal.
“He’s been through a lot,” Roarke said behind me. “They all have.”
“I know.” I kept my voice low and steady. “That’s why I’m not rushing him. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
Roarke didn’t respond. I was already learning that about him. The man didn’t waste words. Which was fine. Totally fine. Some people were just quiet. It didn’t mean anything. It definitely didn’t mean I was talking too much or getting on his nerves.
I talked when I was nervous. Always had. My mom used to joke that I’d come out of the womb mid-sentence and never paused for breath.
In high school, being chatty had been an asset—cheerleaders were expected to be upbeat, enthusiastic, loud in the right ways.But somewhere along the line, I’d started noticing things. The subtle way people’s eyes glazed over. The way conversations suddenly wrapped up for no clear reason.
Roarke hadn’t done that. Yet. But the night was still young.
The Shepherd inched forward, nose twitching as he tested the air near my outstretched hand. Progress.
“That’s it,” I murmured. “Good boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you here.”
Behind me, metal scraped softly against the truck bed, followed by the steady crunch of Roarke’s boots on gravel. We’d been unloading for about twenty minutes now, carrying kennels into the trailer’s small intake area. A tired-looking woman named Rylie had taken over processing the dogs while Roarke and I focused on getting them inside.
The Shepherd took another step. Then another.
When he reached the edge of the kennel, close enough that I could have touched him, I didn’t. I stayed still. Let him decide.
His cold nose brushed my fingers. A cautious sniff. Then—so quick I almost missed it—his tongue flicked out and licked my knuckle. My heart melted on the spot.
“There you go,” I whispered. “See? We’re friends now.”
