Page 273 of Branded
Another tug and the pitcher disappeared from my hand.
Fingers brushed lightly over my cheek. “Try to get some sleep tonight, yeah?”
I inhaled. Sharply.
Not because of the soft, rasping question.
But because of the touch. That light caress that had lightning bolts sliding through my veins. I was still reeling from that as he spun and walked away, holding that pitcher, giving me a view of that glorious hockey player’s ass.
An image that was burned into my mind for the rest of my shift, right along with that soft, rasping question echoing in my ears.
An image and a question that firmly made their places at home inside my mind when I closed out and found a slightly crumpled hundred-dollar bill tucked into the front pocket of my jeans.
I didn’t have to think hard to know where it came from—or whom, rather.
None of my big tabs had paid in cash.
And none of the others had paid in bills that large.
It was Cas’s.
Amusement and annoyance tangled.
But all I could think was this was war.
Nine
Cas
“Come on, Spark,” I muttered when my elderly ass dog tried to stop and sniff another freaking bush.
Spark was Sparky.
My golden retriever, who was closing in on sixteen and was still one of the best presents my parents had ever gotten for me.
All I’d wanted growing up had been a dog.
But I’d stopped asking when I’d gotten old enough to understand that pets were expensive—food, vet bills, toys, treats, beds, crates, collars, leashes, and all the other paraphernalia that came with them.
Then, for my thirteenth birthday, my parents had packed us all up in the car and we’d met a woman from our father’s work at a park. Her dog had played Houdini, escaped the yard, and returned home knocked up. A few months later, they’d had eight tiny puppies they needed to find homes for, and…
I had gotten first choice.
The shock and happiness from that day still filled a large part of my heart.
Because Sparky was the shit.
Even if my thirteen-year-old self had let then seven-year-old Margot give him a dumbass name.
Spark ignored me, taking his time sniffing that bush, clearly discovering myriad new smells he’d never been lucky enough to have in his nose before despite his sixteen years’ experience of sniffing. Cat piss. Dog piss. Flowers. Bugs. Maybe a soda dumped in the plant so someone didn’t have to carry it to their car. Bird poop. Dirt. Other shit that dogs got off on, if Sparky’s intent smelling was any indication.
God, I remembered when I’d barely been able to hold back my exuberant pooch, when Spark had made it his mission to pull my arm out of the socket to get sniffing.
Hell, being dragged around by my pooch in my teenaged years was the best off-ice training I’d ever had.
Now, at fifteen (well, sixteen next month, since at this point I rounded up), Sparky was moving much slower.
Mostly, I coaxed him around the block and then called it good.
