Page 68 of Night Shift

Leaning over, I scooped up the dog and cradled him against my bare chest. Its soft fur was warm against my chilled skin. The pup, seemingly oblivious to the hostility in the room, licked my chin affectionately. I smiled and scratched behind his ears while murmuring, “Aren’t you just the sweetest boy?”

Atticus, however, was not amused. “What the honest hell?” he spat out, barely able to contain his anger. “What have you done to the neighbor’s dog? Did you give him alcohol?”

“What are you talking about?” I replied, genuinely confused. “This sweet boy showed up a couple of hours ago and was the hit of the party. He’s so sweet. Aren’t you, honey?” I cooed at the pup, nuzzling my face into his fur.

Atticus took a step closer, and the dog’s demeanor shifted dramatically. In my arms, he transformed from a cuddly creature into a ferocious little beast, growling and barking aggressively at Atticus. I couldn’t resist the urge to needle Atticus further. “You know, dogs are good judges of a person’s character.”

At that, his face contorted with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he stormed up the stairs, screaming, “You’d better be ready in two hours, or else I’ll come find you, and trust me, that won’t be a pretty scene!”

As I stood there alone, wet, cold, and naked, guilt washed over me for what I had done to Atticus and his home.

I gave him time to make it to his bedroom before I sprinted upstairs and dashed to my temporary room, the little shih tzu scampering along behind me. Then, I sprang into action. Quickly, I slipped into a pair of shorts and a comfy T-shirt. I grabbed the pup and headed back downstairs, determined to tackle the horrendous mess. The temporary high from my little rebellion was gone, and now regret sat in my stomach like a stone.

Thankfully, cleaning was second nature to me. It was a skill I’d honed through years of living with an abusive father. I’d been the one who’d had to manage the household. It had, in fact, been a coping mechanism, a way to bring order to a life that had often felt out of control. Tonight, it served as a means to rectify the evening’s transgressions.

Armed with a couple of large trash bags, I moved from room to room, picking up all the garbage. I wiped every surface down and returned every misplaced item to its rightful place. The rhythm of the work was familiar, almost comforting, and I was glad to have a task to focus on. The pup followed me around with curious eyes.

The kitchen required the most attention, so I dedicated myself to it with exacting care, cleaning every nook and cranny until it gleamed under the soft lights. It was a cathartic process. Each swipe of the cloth was a step toward redemption, toward making amends for what I’d done.

With the house nearing its former state of pristine order, I took the dog outside for a brief walk, hoping to reunite him with his owner. The night air was cool on my skin, a welcome relief after the hard work of cleaning. As if on cue, the pup darted toward a woman who greeted him with open arms and relief in her voice. “There you are, little man. I was getting worried about you.”

I introduced myself as a friend of Atticus, apologizing for any concern Newton’s unexpected adventure might have caused her. She was gracious, dismissing my apology with a wave of her hand and a kind smile. “Not a problem at all,” she assured me before bidding me good night.

When I returned to the house, I surveyed my handiwork one last time, proud that Atticus’s home had not only been restored to its former state but was perhaps even better than before. With ten minutes to spare, I flopped down into one of the living room armchairs, my heart pounding as I nervously awaited Atticus and his all-important big talk.

Chapter eighteen

Icharged up the stairs, the pounding rage in my chest nearly drowning out the sound of my footsteps. When I reached my bedroom door, I went to turn the knob, only to be met with resistance. Right, I’d locked it. God, I was glad no one had access to this room. Securing it had been a rare but necessary measure, considering the current situation. My personal space was sacred, not a place for just anyone to wander into, least of all Sam.

Hastily, I searched for the small key I’d hidden at the top of the doorframe, cursing my paranoia that had led me to lock it in the first place. The door was meant to be a barrier between Sam and my most personal space, but now it stood as a barricade against my fury as I fumbled for the key.

It wasn’t so much about hiding it from others as it was about setting boundaries, especially for Sam. I expected her to understand without explanation.

Finally grabbing hold of the key, I slid it into the hole. The lock gave a click, and I pushed the door open and stepped into the sanctuary of my bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place…until I walked a bit further into the room. There was no disarray, nothing that would seem out of place to the casual observer, but I sensed it—Samantha had been here. It was an inexplicable sensation but undeniably there. I clenched my fists and tried to focus on anything else—the king-sized bed with its crisp white linens, the artwork decorating the walls, the clean scent of the room that spoke of order and control.

I tossed my wallet on the side table and walked across the room, scanning the entire suite. Yep, she’d been here. Even though there were no obvious signs of her intrusion, I could somehow tell she’d ventured into my closet and bathroom. The doors to the closet were slightly ajar. Inside, the items in my meticulously arranged wardrobe, from bespoke suits to casual wear, all hung in perfect order. Yet, something seemed off. Maybe it was the shift in the position of a leather belt, or perhaps it was the way the light caught on a watch I hadn’t worn in weeks, which now lay slightly askew. It was a subtle disturbance, a whisper of intrusion.

Next, I rambled into the bathroom. The marble countertops were pristine, the chrome fittings gleaming under the recessed lighting. My grooming products were still lined up in precise rows. At a glance, they appeared to have been undisturbed—except the bottle of cologne that now sat on the wrong side.

My hands shook from the anger coursing through my veins as I wandered back into the bedroom. She’d invaded my personal space. I rarely invited people into my home. The women I brought here never expected to stay long. Their presence here was temporary and transactional. I invited them here with only one purpose—my gratification. Nothing more, nothing less. But Sam…she defied those unspoken rules. Her presence here was a challenge to the order I’d so carefully maintained.

I’d erected barriers, physical and emotional, to keep women out and to protect my privacy. Yet, as I stood at the corner of my bed, toeing off my shoes and shucking off my clothes, I couldn’t escape the realization that perhaps I was the one who was trapped. Walking to the closet, I carefully placed my shoes in their rightful spot and tossed my clothes in the basket. This room, with all its order, suddenly seemed less like a sanctuary and more like a cell. Why did her defiance, her curiosity, stir something within me?

“Control,” I whispered, trying to regain some semblance of it amid my frustration. I had given Sam two hours to clean up the mess from her little rebellion, and I needed to find something to occupy my mind with until then—anything to keep me from exploding at her.

“All right, a shower. Just take a damn shower and relax,” I told myself, making my way back into the bathroom. The tile floor was cold beneath my feet. I stepped into the shower and turned it on, adjusting the water temperature. Steam quickly filled the room. I stepped under the spray, allowing the hot water to soothe my tense muscles. With each minute that passed, my anger seemed to lessen, albeit only slightly. By the time I turned off the water, toweled off, and pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and an old fraternity T-shirt, I felt somewhat calmer. Two hours, I thought. Just two hours to kill, and then I can deal with her.

As if on cue, the neighbor’s dog barked downstairs, bringing me back to the moment that Sam had held the mangy mutt in her arms and told me that dogs were good judges of character. The nerve of her! My anger resurfaced with full force.

“Music,” I decided, shoving earbuds into my ears in an attempt to calm myself. Once I’d started my favorite playlist, I kicked back on my bed and picked up a medical journal. The latest research on emergency medicine stared back at me, but despite my attempts to focus on the words, my thoughts were consumed by Sam. The image of my brother kissing her at the gala played on repeat in my mind, fueling my fury even further. Had they slept together? The mere idea of it made my blood boil, but I tried to remind myself of the unspoken bro code: none of us would ever fuck another brother’s ex. Not that she was an ex, but still, she and I had hooked up, and he had caught us at the cabin.

Who was I angrier at—Sam or Conan? Did I even have a right to be pissed off?

After precisely two hours, I stomped down the stairs, barefoot and on edge, and entered the living room, where I found Sam lounging in one of my oversized armchairs. As soon as she caught sight of me, she leaped up with a smug look on her face, clearly proud of her cleanup efforts.

“Impressive work,” I grudgingly admitted, surveying the spotless room. “The place looks decent.”

“Oh, it’s more than decent,” she said, settling her hands on her hips and screwing up her face in defiance. “Trust me, it’s spotless, just the way you demanded.”

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