Page 81 of Filthy and the Beast

It felt like a revelation. I need Enzo in my life, and not merely because of some arrangement we’ve worked out for our mutual convenience. I want him to be mine, and I want to be his. Exactly like this.

The “L” word hangs heavy, waiting for me to consider it. Maybe I never wanted a boyfriend before simply because I never found a man I wanted to be my boyfriend.

For a week, I wrestle with the truth, trying to figure out what to do with these feelings. Luckily, life keeps me busy. The bar exhausts me, and Enzo and I fall back into our daily routine. I do the morning dog walk, and by the time I return to the garden, he’s there to train the girls with me. After breakfast, I spot Enzo in the gym, dedicating a couple hours to his workout, and he gives me a quick self-defense lesson before lunch. I spend the afternoons on chores, cleaning, restocking the gym fridge, shoveling the driveway when it snows so he doesn’t throw his back out again.

On the best days, I get some training and play time with the dogs before dinner.

After eating, we take the dogs for their second walk. The nights I work at Pistil and Stamen, Enzo and I have just enough time to hook up and maybe lounge on the couch, cuddling. Then, stress itching the back of my neck, I drag my tired butt to the bar for another long evening of anxiety.

Thursday afternoon, sitting on a stone bench in the garden, I play with the dogs while my tired brain works over the same problems. I’m dreading another weekend at the bar, but I need the job if I’m going to support myself without Enzo, and I need to support myself without Enzo in order to tell him how I feel.

I shove my hands in my puffy winter jacket. Somehow, despite all my clever conversations and processing with Enzo, I’ve backed myself into a trap. Do I quit working for him first to keep it simple, or skip straight to the point and tell him that I might possibly be a little bit in love with him? The thought of quitting spikes my anxiety as much as a long line at the bar. Would I have to move out? That would break my heart. And if Enzo rejects me afterward, I might never see him or the dogs again.

Shit. I thought I was figuring my life out, but now it all seems a mess again.

Petunia nuzzles my hand. Crouching down on the cold path, I pet her while Goldie and Mirabelle sit nearby, panting as their breath makes little clouds.

I pull my phone out. Arranging flowers provides a nice distraction, but nothing's quite as fun at the moment as making a new video of the dogs. My social media has essentially transformed into a dog channel, and each of my videos gets more likes and shares than the last. My follower count keeps climbing, and I love drawing on the skills I’ve learned through classes at the community center, but the real reward is showing Enzo.

He hates attention on himself, but he loves it when his dogs receive praise. The pit bull advocacy and education I splice into every video pleases him, too, and helps me feel like I’m doing something valuable, not just chasing validation from strangers while self-doubt creeps in the rest of my life.

Gentle snow starts falling, and Goldie immediately leaps, biting at it. Sighing, Mirabelle flops down, annoyed because she hates being wet, while Petunia takes the occasion to roll over and snort.

I stand and start recording, certain I’ll use the footage for a post eventually.

“Making another video?”

Enzo lingers by the gym. He’s doing that jock thing, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt even though it’s way too cold for shorts.

Training my phone on Goldie, I bend down. “Always. If I could find a way to do this all day long, I would.”

He stares at me, clearly thinking hard about something, and finally nods. “They like the attention.”

Smiling at him, I stand up. “It’s a shame that really, really loving these particular dogs doesn’t count as a career option.”

“They don’t have classes for that at the college?”

“I didn’t see a single mention of Petunia in the catalog, sadly.”

He cocks up half a smile. I want to kiss him, but it’s still the workday.

Damn it.

“The last contractor sent a quote,” I tell him. “I printed them out for you. They’re on the counter.”

Enzo nods. “Thanks.”

“Sure. I printed out some reviews from online, too. Naturally, the most expensive ones are the good ones.” Snow wets the lenses of my glasses, and I wipe them off. “You weren’t kidding about old houses being costly. But I guess you can win a lot when you’re back to boxing, right?”

Partially, I’m asking to assuage my own concerns. The estimates made me aware how much Enzo is spending on me. He’s so capable and self-sufficient; I know he’s got his money squared away and his investments in line. But if his wallet is pinching, I'll be more motivated to do what I need to, end our business arrangement and initiate something more.

“The crowd loves a big prize.” He squats to pet Mirabelle, scratching under her chin. “Promoters do it more for the audience than for the fighters.”

When he stands to full height, his muscles are taut, ropier after months of focused training. Snow lands on his dark hair, highlighting the streaks of silver, and it strikes me all over again how handsome he is.

“When will you be ready to box?” He hasn’t addressed the logistics in over a month. Before that, he always grumbled about needing to get in fighting condition first.

“Don’t know. Going to see an old friend about it tomorrow, though.”

---