Page 27 of The Way You Hurt Me

I’m about to ask how long it’ll take when I hear my main door slide open.

“Your coat, miss?” I hear Charles ask.

“Oh, thank you, Charles.”

I’m fully aware that the vet is talking, but my attention is on the two sets of footsteps approaching.

And then all of a sudden, she’s here, in my lounge.

I watch her in silence as her eyes go from me, to the vet, and then, a squeak calls her attention to the puppies.

I would let those tiny rats pee on my afghan any day to see that smile, and the way her eyes widen with pure joy. “Oh my god, look at them! Aren’t they adorable?”

She’s adorable, and I’m not the only one thinking it: the vet’s smiling for the first time. “I take it that’s your help for the puppies?”

The vet wisely gives up on trying to talk to me, approaching Willow instead.

And I just watch.

She’s wearing thick tights, and an A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline, like a pinup. It does nothing to hide her mouthwatering curves, though the outfit, on anyone else, would look reserved. Classic. On her, it’s sinful.

Her halo of fiery hair is tied in a high ponytail, and my eyes keep returning to her neck, long and straight. She has poise. None of that slouching so many people are prone to.

The vet reiterates the care instructions she gave, and unlike me, Willow attentively listens to all of it.

I decide to make myself useful, brewing a round of coffee for everyone present, though I’m loath to leave the lounge for even a moment. Then, as they’re still chatting, I open my computer and pretend to get some work done.

The vet was stiff with me, but she opens up to Willow. She’s impossible to resist. She’s telling her about the shelter her office often works with, and how desperate they are for help—fosters, food, blankets, volunteers.

“It’s depressing, honestly. This time of the year, thousands of homes will get a new puppy, and so many are going to end up back in a shelter by September, when they’re no longer deemedcuteby irresponsible owners who haven’t done anything to train them. My staff and I do what we can in our free time, but it’s never enough.”

After a while, I can’t take it. “I’ll send a donation if you leave the details with Ben,” I interject.

Both women look up, like they’d completely forgotten I was even there.

“Oh, thank you. I wasn’t angling for a donation, just venting.” She flushes a little, shyly.

I can tell she’s telling the truth: Willow’s simply easy to open up to, so she was unloading her personal worries.

“You should,” I say. “Angle for donations from wealthy clients, if things are that dire.” With a shrug, I add, “Why not organize a fundraiser to help? I know plenty of people happy to be seen giving money.”

“We don’t all have those kinds of contacts,” she replies briskly.

Back to judgmental. I am no Willow.

“Well, he does,” Willows tells the vet with a grin. “So, bug him. Clearly, he has a soft spot for puppies.”

I walked into that one, didn’t I? Intervening to make sure no one drowned the puppies—and inadvertently scoring an excuse to have her in my flat—doesn’t exactly make me a stray mutt advocate. I meant it when I offered a donation, and I had every plan of being generous, but there’s a very big difference between signing a check and helping with fundraising efforts. One costs money. The other costs time, which is infinitely more valuable.

But Willow Brown is staring at me with those baby blue eyes, so what choice do I have?

“Ben can help you coordinate something. He’ll handle the guest list.”

Fuck.

12

WILLOW

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