Page 30 of Leashed

Gripping the cart a little tighter, she pushed it back to the checkout desk. “I took a taxi this morning. Nixon’s picking me up later.”

He stopped following her for a moment. “So you two smoothed everything out?”

“Of course,” she replied, reaching under the counter for her purse. “Couples are bound to fight once in a while, you know.”

She cringed internally at the snarky tone of her voice.

Bo tucked his hair behind his ear and widened his stance. “Do they now? So tell me, Little Mouse. When you and buddy-boy fight, do you actually argue back or is it just him bitching at you and you apologizing until he decides to subject you to a ten-minute rutting?”

Her jaw dropped at his crassness. “You know what? It’s actually none of your business,” she spat, snatching her coat from the chair and walking past him. “The book’s due back in two weeks.” She walked another two steps and spun around. “And no one uses the word rutting. Ever.”

She shoved the doors open and stood in the cold, buttoning her jacket and watching the street for Nixon’s truck.

It truly wasn’t any of his business. Regardless of how right he was.

Guys like Bo didn’t understand how complicated relationships were.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket and she yanked it out, her cold fingers struggling to swipe it to life. She pursed her lips and glared at the photo Bo had sent her of the book he was reading. Rutting was smack-dab in the middle of page 136.

*

Bo glared atClotho, mentally cursing her as she sat smugly across from him, listening while her “new friends” continued to discuss their work woes, his sour mood only amplified when one of the guys called over a couple he claimed to know from work.

Or, as Bo knew them, Nixon and Sage.

“If you want to know what real stress is, you should try compiling multimillion-dollar risk assessments,” Nixon snorted, taking a drink from a fresh beer and handing the empty to Sage. “No room for screwups there.”

Sage inched closed to Nixon. “That was a huge part of the lecture I attended Thursday,” she said. “Balancing the risks of damage to the pieces versus the short and long-term benefits of restoration.”

Nixon gave her a quick look and she sat back, crossing her legs and returning to the mute observer she’d been all evening while the rest of the group continued to try to top one another’s worst mistake stories.

Setting his empty coffee mug down with a thud, Bo leaned back again, appraising the guy. “You make decent money, don’t you, Dixon?”

“Nixon,” he corrected. “Yeah, I do pretty well.” He squeezed Sage’s knee and grinned. “This one’s been itching to get on my 401K for four years.”

Five years, dipshit.

He whistled low as Sage protested quietly and wrapped her fingers around Nixon’s arm. “You ever do a risk assessment on your girlfriend’s car?” he asked, ignoring the daggers Sage’s eyes were tossing his way for the umpteenth time since she’d slid into the booth.

“No point if she refuses to work hard enough to buy a new one, right?” Nixon retorted, shaking Sage’s hands off his arm and glancing across the lounge at the lineup forming at the bathroom. “I’ll be back.”

Waiting until Nixon walked off, Bo strode to the bar to grab a glass of water.

The bartender was setting the cup down when Sage appeared at his side, her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

He held up his glass. “Nope. Just trying to stay hydrated.”

“You’ve been baiting him all night,” she hissed. “What the hell’s your problem?”

Taking a long drink, he set his cup down and leaned against the counter. “You mad, Sunshine?” he asked, turned on by the anger in her eyes. “Afraid you aren’t going to get a good rutting tonight if buddy-boy gets all riled up? I’d be more worried about whiskey-dick with the amount of booze he’s pounded back.”

“Stop. Using. That. Word,” she seethed, stepping into his space and digging her finger into his chest. “And you know damn well his name’s Dix…goddammit. Nixon.”

He licked his lips and looked down at her hand, wondering if she felt the surge of electricity passing between them. “You ever push against him like this, Little Mouse?”

She stepped back and crossed her arms, glaring at the counter. “Of course not. He isn’t so…so…” She waved her hand in his direction. “You know.”

“Hot?”

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