Page 68 of Roulette Rodeo
I could watch this all day. Heck, I’d pay money to watch this. Probably just did, in a roundabout way.
A bark breaks the spell.
A dog comes racing out of nowhere—a German Shepherd mix, maybe, all legs and enthusiasm and wagging tail. It's headed straight for me, and for a moment, my casino-trained brain screams danger—unknown animal, probably protective of its owner, could be aggressive.
But instead of freezing in fear, I gasp with delight.
"A puppy!"
I drop to my knees right there in the dirt, not caring about the expensive pajamas or the way the movement makes me dizzy. The dog skids to a stop a few feet away, head tilted, clearly not expecting this reaction.
"Hi, baby," I coo, keeping my voice soft and high the way Mom taught me when I was little. "Oh, you're beautiful, aren't you? Such a pretty puppy."
The dog's ears prick forward, but it doesn't approach.
Smart. Cautious.
I stay perfectly still, offering my hand palm-down, letting it decide.
"It's okay. I'm nice, I promise. I smell weird, I know. Like medicine and new places and probably fear-sweat, but I'm nice. I've never gotten to pet a real dog before. Just the mean ones they used for security, and they weren't for petting."
The dog takes a step closer, nose twitching. Another step. Finally, it stretches its neck out to sniff my hand, its breath warm and damp against my skin.
The dog huffs—a sound that seems to say 'you'll do'—and suddenly it's racing around me in circles, tail wagging so hard its whole back end is wiggling.
I giggle—actually a genuine sound of glee, a sound I haven't made in years—as it play-bows in front of me, then races away, then comes back.
"You want to play? Is that it? Oh, you're just a baby, aren't you?"
The dog apparently takes this as an invitation and launches itself at me.
I squeal—not in fear but in pure joy—as I'm knocked backward, the dog immediately licking my face with enthusiasm.
"Oh my God, puppy kisses!" I'm laughing now, really laughing, as I try to pet it while it tries to lick every inch of my face. "You're perfect, you know that? The most perfect puppy in the whole world."
The dog flops down next to me, rolling onto its back to present its belly, and I immediately comply with the obvious demand for belly rubs. Its fur is softer than expected, well-groomed despite living in the forest, and it makes little groaning sounds of happiness as I scratch.
"Are you a boy or a girl?" I ask, not really looking because I'm too enchanted by the way its back leg kicks when I find the right spot. "Not that it matters. You're gorgeous either way. And so friendly! Yes you are, yes you are!"
I'm using full baby-talk now, dignity abandoned in the face of canine perfection.
"I'm keeping you," I declare to the dog, who seems amenable to this plan. "You're mine now. We'll be best friends. I'll sneak you treats and let you sleep in my bed and?—"
"Kidnapping my dog is technically illegal."
The voice comes from above, amused and warm, and I look up to find Shiloh standing over me.
This close, I can smell him—sawdust and sweat and that underlying scent that makes my brain go fuzzy. He's even more devastating up close, all that skin and muscle and barely contained power.
"And Duke's picky about who he likes," he adds, one eyebrow arched in a way that should be illegal.
Duke.
The dog's name is Duke.
I pout, lower lip pushing out in an expression that feels both childish and calculating.
Then I grin, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially to the dog but loud enough for Shiloh to hear:
