“A gentle horse. A horse that loves you and would never hurt you and just wants to be your friend.” She was already backing toward the door, leaving Meatball behind like this was a done deal. “Twenty minutes. You’re the best. I owe you coffee. Or wine. Or therapy. Whatever you need.”
The door closed before I could protest.
I stood in my living room, staring at the enormous dog who was now staring back at me with those big, soulful eyes that I was ninety percent sure were hiding murderous intent.
“Don’t move,” I told him.
Meatball’s tail wagged.
“I mean it. You stay right there. We’re not friends. This is not a bonding moment. I’m going to make coffee and you’re going to sit there and think about your life choices.”
He lay down with a heavy sigh, resting his massive head on his paws.
I edged around him toward the kitchen, keeping my back to the wall like I was navigating a room full of landmines. He watched me the whole way, his eyes tracking my movements with that unsettling focus that made my skin prickle.
The coffee maker gurgled to life. I stood there watching it, trying not to think about German Shepherds and all the reasons my body insisted on treating every canine like a threat.
Meatball whined softly.
I turned around.
He was still in the same spot, exactly where Candy had left him, but his tail was wagging again and his eyes had taken on a distinctly pathetic quality. Like he knew I was afraid of him—and was personally offended by this fact, determined to change my mind through sheer force of sad-dog energy.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.
The tail wagged harder.
“I’m not going to pet you.”
He whined again—a small, pitiful sound that should not have been possible from an animal his size.
“Absolutely not.”
I turned back to my coffee and tried to ignore the weight of his gaze on my back. Twenty minutes. I could survive twenty minutes.
Alice Pearson was gone.
I found out the moment I stepped off the elevator at work—through the whispers and the conspicuous absence of her designer handbag on her desk.
The whispers talked about something like “behavior unbecoming” and “hostile work environment” and other HR phrases that meant Jack Specter had finally noticed what everyone else had been dealing with for months.
I should feel victorious. Some petty part of me probably did.
But mostly I just felt tired. And confused. And completely unprepared for the other thing I needed to do today.
Thank him. Properly. Like a normal person who hadn’t spent years treating him like the villain in her personal tragedy.
He’d saved my life. He’d driven me home. He’d had my car delivered to my apartment while I slept. I owed him gratitude at least.
I tried three times before lunch.
The first time, I made it all the way to the elevator before my heart started doing something ridiculous and I convinced myself I should wait until I had something work-related to discuss. You know, to make it less awkward. To give myself cover.
The second time, I actually got to his floor, but his assistant said he was in a meeting and would I like to leave a message? I said no and fled back downstairs like the building was on fire.
The third time, I walked past his office, saw him through the glass wall on the phone, and immediately pretended I was looking for the bathroom. On the executive floor. Where I had no business being. The assistant gave me a look that suggested she was reconsidering her assessment of my intelligence.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman. I could say two words to Jack Specter without having a complete nervous breakdown.
