Page 21 of Rescue Me (Forget the Past 1)

He looks like he could do with some caretaking.

That’s not my job.I remind myself.

I hop up the stairs and pull open the back door to let Pumpkin in, then cringe when I realize she’s tracking muddy paw prints all over the tile floors.

“Oh crap. Take off your shoes, Dash! We’re a fucking mess!” I yell this over my shoulder as I toe my sneakers off and sprint after my dog. In the kitchen she’s drinking deeply from her water bowl. I pull a dishtowel from one of the drawers and work on wiping her paws off, then crawl across the floor to clean up each puppy footprint.

“You need help with that?”

I glance up to find myself kneeling directly in front of Dash. In his right hand he’s dangling his dirty sneakers, and as he stares down at me, his beautiful floppy hair falls over his forehead.

“I got it.” My voice comes out in a higher octave than I was aiming for. Quickly, I move to stand, my position introducing too many naughty thoughts into my wandering mind.

Why do I have to find him so attractive?

Why do I have to findanymen attractive?

My life can be amazing with just Pumpkin and me. Men are stupid and complicated. And they break things. Like hearts.

With this reminder ringing heavy in my chest, I force all thoughts to business, with just a dash of southern hospitality my mother drilled into the core of my being.

“So, sweet tea. Would you like a glass?” I lead the way back into the kitchen.

“That would be great, Paige.”

Damn. He shouldn’t be allowed to say my name. Not in that husky voice of his.

“Are you sure you didn’t hurt your ankle?”

His question has me pausing, and that’s when I realize I must’ve been limping. The exercise should’ve helped with the stiffness, but it always creeps back in.

“I’m fine. That’s nothing new. Hurt my leg when I was younger, and it cramps up sometimes.” Avoiding what I’m sure is a curious gaze, I busy myself pulling out a pitcher of the almost syrupy thick drink from the fridge and rummaging through the cupboards for a glass.

“You run a coffee shop from your house or something?” Dash’s question has me glancing over my shoulder, confused until I realize he’s examining the large brass espresso machine that takes up more than its fair share of the kitchen counter.

He shoots me a half-smile, and I end up spilling sweet tea over my hand and onto the floor.

“Crap,” I mutter, reaching for yet another dish towel to wipe myself off and then push Pumpkin away from the puddle so I can clean it up.

“You need help with anything?”

If I look at him, I’ll just end up messing something else up. “Nope. I’m good. Just clumsy today.” With the utmost care, I pass him his glass of tea. “And, yeah. The espresso machine is a bit much. But I’m a sucker for fancy coffee. Get that from my mom. That used to be my grandfather’s. He had it set up in his dealership and would serve his customers fresh cappuccino. Said that the showroom always smelled like coffee and that meant more customers.” The memory of my grandfather brings on a warm, sad tingle in my chest. He was a gruff, sweet man, and the heart attack that took him away from us two years ago came out of nowhere.

“So, is that what you do? Sell cars? Must be pretty good at it to afford a place like this.” Something in Dash’s voice has changed. The words he says sound like small talk, but there’s a coldness to the statements.

He sets down his glass without drinking any of the tea.

“What? No.” I struggle over what exactly to say, not enjoying how pathetic the truth makes me seem. Still, Dash was honest about his ex-con status. I can at least be as straight forward. “This is my parents’ house. My dad is a judge, and my mom refurbishes classic cars. Chevy’s from the ’60s, like my Grandpa used to sell. So yeah, they make good money. I, unfortunately, lost my job a few weeks ago. I worked for a publishing company as an editor, but now I’m a free agent, trying to figure out my next move.”

There, that sounds better than,I’ve been wandering around my childhood home sleepless for weeks, too lost and depressed to apply for new jobs and most often found sprawled on the couch watching episodes of the Great British Baking Show while eating fried chicken.

No wonder my parents don’t take me seriously.

“Your father…is a judge. And…your mother…works on cars.” Dash’s words start and stop as if he has to give deep thought to each one.

“Yeah. They’re both good at their jobs. Do you not like the tea?” He hasn’t even tried it, but maybe he just agreed to a glass to be polite. “I could make you a coffee instead. A cappuccino? Or a latte? I brew one for myself every morning.”

Dash meets my eyes and smiles at me, but it doesn’t shoot off sparks in my chest. Probably because, despite the upward curve of his mouth, it doesn’t feel like a smile. More like an obligatory positive mouth movement.

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