Page 26 of Leashed

Chapter Ten

Sage sat in her car, her phone tight to her ear as she listened to Nixon unload about her absence from his work dinner. “I’m sorry,” she said again, closing her eyes and leaning back. “I’m certain I told you I had a lecture at the gallery tonight. I just don’t remember you saying anything about it.”

“A hundred dollars a plate and an empty seat at the head table doesn’t reflect well on me,” he snarled. “I had to tell everyone you weren’t feeling well. If anyone saw you at that stupid class instead, what am I supposed to say? Hmmmm?” He muttered something under his breath and let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I better let you go before I say something I may regret. Night.”

“Good n—” She looked at her black screen. “Night, asshole,” she grumbled to the disconnected call as she stared up at her dark apartment windows.

There was no way Nixon mentioned the dinner.

The date of this gallery lecture had been entered into her phone calendar and written in her monthly schedule on her desk since it was announced in September. The date was burned into her mind, her attendance and participation in the mandatory event carrying a significant chunk of her final grade.

There was no way she agreed to accompany Nixon.

The excitement and invigoration she’d felt upon exiting the museum was gone, her mood soured by his anger, her chest feeling constricted when the thought of walking away once and for all from his selfishness crashed into her head. With a sigh, she walked inside, glancing over at the nearby park for any sign of a tall blond moving through the trees.

Pushing aside the stack of art books, she reached into her desk drawer to pull out a pile of unread novels she’d checked out a month earlier, renewing them on the sly as they were set aside night after night in favor of work, studying, or sleep.

She was wrapped up in a heavy blanket on her balcony, four chapters into a shifter romance, when she was ripped from the story by a small stone bouncing along the patio floor.

“I’m busy,” she grumbled at the blond intruder.

There was a pause before Bo called out to her. “You naked under that?”

Turning the page, she adjusted the blanket over her mouth to cover her amusement. “Yup.” When he didn’t respond for a few moments, she huffed. “Come on up.”

He jumped up to grip the deck, hefting himself up and over the railing with impressive speed, eyes narrowing as he scanned her over and saw the sleeves of her shirt peeking out. “Well that’s fuuu…fricking disappointing.” Flopping into the empty chair, he tucked his hair behind his ears. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” she replied on cue, setting her book on her lap and forcing herself to snap out of her funk enough to be cordial. “So how has your week been? What brings you over to this area?”

“Rough. C was supposed to meet me at the park for a jog and never showed.” There was a movement in the shrubs framing the complex and he stilled a moment. “What’re you reading?”

“Werewolf love triangle,” she said, holding it up to show him the cover. “Escapism at its finest.”

He snorted and leaned forward, taking the book from her hand and reading over the blurb on the back. “How the hell is this escapism?” he asked, glancing back at the cover. “I’m four into that vampire series and it’s fucking stressful. Real. Real stressful.”

She cracked a smile. “Stressful?”

He passed the book over and lounged back, his size looking ridiculous against the delicate weave of the wicker chair. “Well, yeah. Every guy knows romance is roses and wine and chocolate, but there was none of that in any of the books. So how the hell do they count as romance? It’s kind of stressful to know your average guy could do none of that shit and still end up married.” He shoved his hand roughly through his hair to push it out of his eyes. “Stuff. None of that stuff.”

“So, becoming an accidental romancer freaks you out?”

“Sure the hell does,” he stated, playing with a loose thread on his shredded jeans. “How’s your average guy supposed to know what to avoid when the things that are romantic aren’t even in books about romance?” His nose twitched. “Is buddy-boy romantic?”

Pushing aside the sinking feeling that dropped through her, she tucked her feet up under herself. “Very,” she said, her smile a little more forced than she wanted it to be. “Chocolate on Valentine’s Day, flowers on our anniversary, wine on my birthday. Nixon’s great at the classics.”

He snorted and ran his hand through his hair. “So why aren’t you two married? Or, like, living together or something since he’s doing all the right stuff?”

*

Sage’s eyes darkenedfor a moment, long enough for Bo to turn tail and return to their initial topic. “So tell me, from a woman’s perspective, what makes some ordinary things romantic and not others?”

She shook her head quickly, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Intent, I guess. Like the flower thing. Sending flowers because you cheated is so, so not romantic. But sending them because you know it would make someone happy when they’ve had a bad Tuesday? That’s romantic.”

He tugged at the thread he’d been playing with. “So where does obligation fall in there, then? Flowers and chocolates on Valentine’s Day are an obligation, right? So how does that fall into the romance category?”

She shifted under her heavy blanket. “I don’t know. I guess if your intention is to be romantic, then it is.”

“But how do you know the guy’s intention?” he pressed, releasing the thread before he tore a bigger hole in his favorite jeans. “Does Nixon tell you he’s intending to be romantic or are you just assuming it?”

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