Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

pact.  Tonight is about getting out and doing something new, but only observing from afar.”

When she levels her gaze on me, I know I’ve lost all control because she starts talking to me like I speak to my patients.  “That doesn’t mean we can’t introduce ourselves.  Aria, it’s time to cross something else off your list besides going to an event only to hide in the shadows.  You can do this.  It’s your day. I feel it!”

My face turns to stone.  “Don’t you dare—”

“It’s going to be okay.” Her words bleed with sarcasm as she twists out of my grip.  “Drink your wine, hang back, enjoy the scenery if you insist on living your boring, horrid life.  But you could also talk yourself out of your hole and speak to someone who isn’t a colleague or a wacko. Like a hot guy with a dog.”

“Don’t talk about my patients like that.”

She waves me off.  “I’m on my second martini and I’m not letting our scheduled Uber or this buzz go to waste.  I’m going to fuss over stray dogs and drool over firefighters.”

“You’re the worst friend ever,” I hiss under my breath, but it’s pointless.  Her long, blond waves swish to the rhythm of her hips.  And that swish is strong as she moves across the ballroom, disappearing into a sea of shirtless firefighters wrangling homeless canines, all in the name of philanthropic cuteness.

I pull in a big breath and take a bigger sip of my merlot.  Then I take a step closer to the wall and into the shadows.  As I survey the room, it’s not hard to forget why I’m here or why tonight was a biggie in all the things I need to cross off my list.

A slew of firefighters roam, each with their own homeless pup.

Dogs and Dates.

The annual fundraiser for the Redmond Rescue, a no-kill animal shelter.  I doubt there’s anything that melts panties quicker than bare-chested heroes and puppies.  Along with their annual calendar, these half-naked men and their canines will be auctioned off after the cocktail hour designed to loosen the pockets of single women.  The highest bidders will be the proud owners of a puppy and a date.

Kate is right. I do have a list.  It’s long and carefully curated.  It’s made of things I was never allowed to do because they were beneath me.  Or, rather, beneath our family name.

Rescuing an animal was always a big, fat no.  Owning anything less than a pure-breed from a distinguished bloodline would definitely be beneath my family, if we would’ve been allowed to have a pet.  I won’t even go into paying for a date—especially with a man who fights fires for a living.  My father would have a fit and my mother would slur on about how impossible it is to live on a salary less than the top one percent of pretentious Americans.

Tonight is definitely at the top of my list, even if I’m only here to observe and experience it from afar.

Now that I have a moment to myself, I look for that curly-haired chocolate doodle who was rescued from a puppy mill.  They’re nowhere to be seen.

The firefighter and the popular hybrid pup are likely being eaten alive by women with healthy bank accounts who aren’t working to pay off student loans that rival a jumbo loan.

My wine sloshes when something hits my bare-skinned legs before a deep voice I’ve never heard before rumbles beside me, “Been waiting for you.”

I’m forced to catch my breath as I blot the wine off my chest. His eyes—as dark and oppressive as the black nights I’ve become familiar with since I moved to this part of the country—might as well claw through my skin.

They’re that intense.

I feel that transparent.

I look away and push the jumping dog down. “Waiting for me?”

“Woof!”

I keep my attention on the puppy who looks like it belongs on Instagram more than in its homeless reality.  Because it’s easier to focus on the fur ball than the man, I run my fingers through its thick, floppy hair.  “Hey, you.”

The man’s bulky fire pants ride low on his hips, only hanging on by the suspenders strapped over his wide, bare shoulders. The only other thing he’s wearing north of his waist, is a simple gold cross hanging around his neck. He gives the leash a tug and the puppy wiggles at my feet trying to get to me.  “Been waiting for you.  It was easy to see from across the room you liked what you saw.”

I look from the dog to the man who’s wearing a five o’clock shadow from yesterday. His hair is long on top and tight on the sides and back—all but a few strands are trained to sit obediently in place. I’m jealous of the rebellious hairs that kiss his olive skin and strong, thick brows. “Excuse me?”

I work hard to focus on anything other than the faint scar that mars his right brow. I try so hard, my gawk falls to his pecs, and then farther to his rippled abs, but I force myself to stop there. This is awkward enough and not a part of my plan for the evening, so I focus on his square jaw that couldn’t be more tense at the moment.

His irritated stare matches his tone. “The dog.  You couldn’t take your eyes off it from across the room.  Look, I got roped into this.  I don’t want to be here, but I do want him to find a home.  I had to drag my ass through all these women, so if you’re not serious about him, just say the word, and I’ll move on.”

I squat as best I can in my cocktail dress that was designed solely for foreplay. It might be off the rack, but off the rack in black is easy to perfect, and this dress fits like a glove in all the right places.

The man gives the pooch enough slack to attack me and I instantly understand