Beth
The next week passes quickly. I feel as if I’m standing in the center of a tornado, with everything whirling around me. I tell Stefan I’ve decided to take the job at PAWS, but suggest I work part time at the Ark to help out until all the schedules are sorted, and he’s very happy to agree to that. It means I’ll keep my hand in at the Ark, and Archer is keen to maintain staff movement between the two places, so he’s happy too.
For the moment, we settle on me working mornings at the Ark as that’s its busiest time, and when I finish there I walk down to PAWS and help out with the others, doing whatever anyone needs. Sometimes I sit with Isla and we work on what we want the structure of the animal side of the practice to look like, drawing up flowcharts for staff and plans for what equipment and furniture we need.
Other days are more practical. On Monday, I help Cullen and Tyr with some planning for the assault course. On Wednesday, Natalie and I have a big discussion about the therapy rooms, and what each of them needs for both clients and dogs. We plan out the paint schemes, and take a trip into town to look at furnishings—cushions, curtains, and paintings for the walls.
I spend a lot of time with Archer, too, walking around the center with him, listening to him talk about his plans. I take to jotting things down on his iPad for him, making a note of the equipment he decides he needs as he comes up with it—desks, chairs, laptops, stationery, blinds, lockable cabinets for the offices; a microwave and maybe a toaster for the break room; and then all the stuff we need for the dogs: more water and food bowls, beds, brushes, bottles of hypoallergenic shampoo, and more towels for when we give them a bath or it’s a wet day.
It’s strange, but Archer seems different since he met with everyone that day. It’s as if he’s growing into his role as a leader, and I’m seeing a different side of him. He’s more confident, more outspoken—in a good way, firm with what he wants, and capable enough to carry his instructions through. He doesn’t ask anyone to do anything he isn’t prepared to do himself, and he can frequently be found with his sleeves rolled up and his clothes covered in sawdust or splashed with paint.
I really enjoy listening to him talk about the place. He’s so full of energy and enthusiasm—it’s infectious. I love that he’s so open to ideas. He talks for ages to Dane about the Healing PAWS bus, agreeing with most of Dane’s suggestions for what it should look like inside. He gives Isla full rein and a generous budget to decorate the office space, and then sits with Natalie, and I hear him asking her opinion on what therapy techniques they should offer, and if she can suggest any other therapists she knows who might be interested in working there.
I’m falling in love with him, I realize. Maybe I always have been, but I’m just unearthing it now, like a rare archaeological find that’s always been beneath the surface and has just been brought to light.
Most nights, I go back to his place because I can’t keep away from him. He makes me dinner, or we cook dinner together, and we inevitably end up in bed. Sometimes we make love before we eat because we can’t wait, having driven each other mad with glances and touches during the afternoon. We keep things professional when others are around, but when we’re alone it’s impossible for us to keep apart.
But I still go back to the cottage at the end of each evening. It feels important to me to do that at the moment.
On Saturday, Archer and I arrange to meet up at PAWS in the afternoon because we’re expecting a delivery of some equipment that Cullen ordered for the assault course, and he can’t be there as he and Isla are taking Max to Auckland to see his father. Once the tires, planks of wood, cones, hoops, ropes, and tunnels are all in the shed out the back, the van leaves and, for the first time, we discover we’re alone in the center.
Archer takes my hand, and we wander slowly through the rooms.
“It’s odd seeing it so bare,” I say. The old kitchen has gone, and the room is a shell, awaiting its new cupboards, oven, and hob. The window frames have been replaced or sanded, and so have the doors, but they haven’t yet been painted. A couple of dividing walls have beentaken down, and it’s all swept clean, but there still needs to be some plastering done. Isaac has also removed the carpets throughout the whole center, as he’s planning to lay vinyl that looks like wood paneling, which means it’ll be easy to keep clean if the dogs have any accidents.
Yesterday, Archer had a local kaumatua or elder come in. We spent a lovely hour with him, Isla and Cullen, going from room to room as the kaumatua said akarakiaor prayer, blessing the center and asking any local spirits to watch over us and guide us.
The place has been stripped back to its skeleton, physically and spiritually. Now, it can start being rebuilt.
Queenie is lying in a patch of sunshine, snoring contentedly. Archer and I stand in the middle of the Den, and he takes my hand and turns me to face him. He cups my cheeks with his big hands and lowers his lips to mine, and I let him kiss me, feeling as if I’m at the same stage as the center.
I’ve left my old relationship behind, but not fully committed to this new one, not yet. For now, I’m not someone’s partner; I’m discovering what it means to be me, Beth, on my own. My emotions and feelings have been stripped back to their bones. I feel raw and scoured, and I’m in the process of waiting for a new coat of paint and fresh, bright fittings.
Archer knows, and he’s being very patient with me. He doesn’t complain when I leave in the evenings. He’s happy to see me, but content to let me go when I please, conscious that I need this time to breathe.
Now though, letting me breathe seems to be the last thing on his mind, as he deepens his kiss until I’m gasping and filled with longing.
“I want you,” he murmurs, sliding his hands beneath my top.
I blink and look around. “Here?”
“Yes.” His lips curve up as he slips his hands around my back and undoes my bra. “Right here.”
I feel a brief flicker of nerves—anyone could turn up and walk in at any moment—and then they’re gone, and all I can think is this is his place now, and he’s the king of his domain. His passion has seeped into its very walls until the whole center resonates with him.
“I want you,” he says, teasing my lips with his. “So much.”
His words warm me all the way through. I whisper, “Yes…” and he growls, turns around, and pushes me up against the wall. Lifting my tee and bra, he bends and lowers his mouth to my breast, and I groan and tip my head back. Being wanted and needed is the biggest turn on, and my body melts like caramel beneath his strong hands and hot mouth.
He kisses me until I lose all sense of self, until I can’t remember where I am or who I am or what I’m doing there, and then he slides a hand up my thigh beneath my short skirt, moves the elastic of my G-string aside, and slips his fingers down into me.
“Beth,” he says with a groan as he obviously finds me more than ready for him, and he circles the pad of his finger over my clit until I’m trembling with need.
There are no beds in the building; there aren’t even any carpets, so I can’t think where he’ll want to take me, but he unzips his shorts, pushes down his boxers, and releases his erection. He bends and lifts me, wrapping my legs around his hips, and I realize exactly what he meant when he said,Right here.
He presses me back against the wall, moves the tip of his erection so he enters me, then holds me tightly as he lowers me, impaling me completely.
“Oh, fuck…” I moan at the sensation, shuddering.
