Busting Loose (2 page)

“You,” Peyton said dryly. “Working at the strip club outside city limits.”

“Oh, sure. They have the cutest uniforms.” Warming to the idea of annoying Peyton, she continued. “Of course, I'll have to order my pasties from online. There's bound to be a pitiful selection here in town.”

“Jesus, Bea-Bea.” Trace flushed and looked like he wanted to escape, or maybe rip something apart with his bare hands. “What the hell?”

She threw a piece of her uneaten roll at him. “Oh for God's sake, Trace. No. Morgan Browning asked me to fill in for his receptionist at the vet clinic.”

Silence greeted the statement.

“Answering phones, checking in patients, that sort of thing.”

More silence, broken only by the sound of Jo's water glass clinking on the table in front of her.

“Oh, come on, guys. It's not like I'm neutering dogs or anything. It's sitting in front of a computer for a few hours a day.” God, how inept did they really think she was?

How inept had she let them think she was? Maybe she really was a better actress than she'd ever thought.

“If you wanted money,” Jo said slowly, “you could have asked me for a job at the bar.”

“Or just pulled your weight around here,” Peyton added.

“Right. Like you would even give me the chance.” She didn't look up, didn't care to see the scorn in her older sister's face. Okay, so mucking out a stall was about as high on her to-do list as swimming in shark-infested waters. And her sister certainly had never asked for her help.

Maybe that was her own fault.

 

Morgan walked in the back door of his parents' home and wiped his boots on the mat.

“Morgan?” His mother's voice filtered into the mudroom.

“Yeah, Mom.” He hung his jacket on the hook by the door, next to his father's heavier coat meant for his days in the fields.

“Boots off.”

He thought to argue they were his good, clean office footwear, not his barn shitkickers, but didn't bother. Instead he sat down on the wooden bench his grandfather had made his parents as a wedding gift and pulled off his shoes. The cement of the mudroom was freezing cold, the chill seeping through his socks as he hopped his way onto the marginally warmer worn linoleum of the kitchen.

Cynthia, his mother, set another plate on the table. Without looking up, she pointed at the kitchen sink. The now-familiar routine served as a good reminder why he had built the house at the edge of their property for himself, rather than live with his parents. Plenty of room, but plenty of rules. At thirty-three, he should be able to wash his hands when he wanted.

But under his mother's roof, he washed when Cynthia said.

Over the rushing water, he said, “It's quiet. Where are the little demon spawn?”

“If you are referring to your niece and nephew, they're in the den with your father, watching some God-awful show they insisted was fantastic and they couldn't miss.” Cynthia rolled her eyes and handed him a towel to dry his hands on. “They watch too much TV, but I swear I was going crazy with them underfoot while I made dinner.”

Morgan wasn't fooled. He set the towel on the counter and leaned down to kiss his mother's cheek. “You love every noisy minute, and you know it.”

“Of course I do. Having little ones in the house is a nice change from the quiet.”

“When do Meg and Simon get back again?” His sister and her husband had taken themselves off on a cruise to celebrate their tenth anniversary and left the kids with Grandma and Grandpa Browning.

“Four more days.” She looked up to the heavens, as if exasperated and begging for relief. But the minute those kids left, Morgan knew she'd be sobbing. Even living only ten minutes away, she'd be heartbroken to part with them.

“Uncle Morgan!” Six-year-old Andrea bulleted out from the den and ran smack into his legs, nearly taking him out. Small, but mighty. “Did you bring any puppies home? Did you? I want to bottle-feed a puppy!”

“No, not today. Sorry, short stuff.” He ran a hand down her messy ponytail, which tilted crazily to one side.

“Did you cut anything open?” Brent, at eight, was more interested in guts and gore than fuzzy puppies who wanted to snuggle.

“Brent. We're about to eat dinner. That's not appropriate. Now, go take your seat. Bert! We're eating!”

Morgan's father shuffled in, slippers already on, paper tucked under his arm. The man loved his paper. And he winked at Morgan before asking, “So, any operations today, son?”

“Honestly.” His mother yanked the paper from under his arm and whacked him with it. “Go sit.”

Morgan watched with amusement at the short fight for who would sit next to whom at the table, before both Brent and Andrea were satisfied. Sitting in the exact same seats they had been yesterday for dinner, naturally. But the bickering never got old. He'd done the same thing with Meg when they'd been children.

“Anything interesting at work today? Not operating room–related,” his mother qualified quickly, with a scolding look at Brent.

“Not too much. A couple might stop in for a dog later this week. And I found a temporary replacement receptionist.”

“Really?” His mother glanced up from cutting Andrea's asparagus. “Who?”

“Bea Muldoon.” He took a sip of water and waited.

Cynthia froze in the middle of a cut. “Beatrice?”

“That young Muldoon gal?” his father asked, just as puzzled.

“She's pretty,” Andrea said, ignorant of the undercurrents. She spooned up a piece of potato. “I saw her at the grocery store once. Mama said she was an actress. You have to be pretty to be an actress.”

“That's not what's important,” his mother said quickly, resuming her grandmotherly duties.

“But she is pretty hot,” Brent acknowledged with a grin.

“You're eight, what do you know from hot?” Morgan asked, biting back a smile. Christ, kids were growing up too fast these days.

“I know it when I see it.” Brent shrugged, then dug into his casserole.

Uh-huh. He turned to his dad, hoping for a little backup. Instead, he got a wink. “She is definitely a cute one, no denying it.”

“Okay, so she's attractive.” Sexy, sassy, with mile-long legs and a slender neck that made him want to take quick, nipping bites all along that elegant curve . . . “But that's not all. She's good at the job, as she showed me today. She can handle it.”

His mother snorted, then winced when Andrea looked up. “Sorry, dear. That was rude. We don't snort at the table.”

Andrea giggled, but said nothing more. Brent smiled down into his plate.

“But really, Morgan. I don't mean to tell you how to run your business . . .”

“Which is to say, she's going to tell you how to run your business,” his father muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Cynthia shot him a Look. Capital
L
. “But,” she continued more sternly, “I have to say I think this is unwise. You know I adore Peyton.”

“Didn't you think she and Morgan would make a cute couple at one point?” Bert asked.

“Jeez, Dad.” Morgan winced at the thought. He loved Peyton, like a sister. She'd been a good friend, as had Trace, and he'd hated how hard she had to work the past few years under her mother's thumb. But she'd triumphed with Red's help, and they were a solid duo, both in business and as a couple.

“I'm merely warning you. Beatrice is not long for here. She's told anyone who would listen for more than five seconds, she has big plans to head back to Hollywood and continue her career. Don't depend on her.”

“She's a temp, not a full-time employee. She's filling the gap until I can find and train someone new. I'm lucky she's willing to help out. I was drowning and she just walked in like a life raft at the perfect moment.” When neither of them said a word, he blew out a breath. “You'll be eating these words. I believe in her.”

“Sometimes,” his mother said quietly, not looking up from her plate, “one should be wary of perfectly timed life rafts.”

He attacked his meal with a vengeance, eating fast enough to get out of there quickly but not so fast his mother's feelings would be hurt. Andrea and Brent's good-natured squabbling helped keep the mood light, but he needed his own space.

On the short walk back to his own house, a half mile down the road, he wondered why his mother was so insistent on his not thinking about Bea being around for the long haul. Did she suspect he'd been struck dumb by her since the minute she'd come into town?

He winced at the thought of his own mother contemplating his love life, or current lack thereof. Not a good place to go.

It didn't matter, really. Bea was a temp, and he had no desire to force her to stay. But if something should just happen to nudge her into thinking about making Marshall her permanent home again . . .

Well. He wouldn't argue.

B
ea placed a hand on the door handle, then dropped it and stepped back. Not ready yet.

“This shouldn't be so hard. Right?”

Milton, looking quite dapper in his morning sweater and booties, just stared at her.

“I'll go in, tell him, ‘Thank you for thinking of me, but I'm not in the market for a job.' That's all.”

Milton cocked his head, one of his ear tips winging up momentarily before flopping over again.

“No, I really don't think I should reconsider this.” He lifted one front paw, then the other, like a little dance in place, as if to say
If you're not reconsidering, why am I standing on cold pavement instead of warm linoleum?

“You're wearing your booties. Get over it.” She pushed the door fully open this time, and the little bell above the front door tinkled.

The main area was empty of patients, but she was also an hour early for opening. He'd never specified a time to come in, so she'd merely guessed. And she wasn't about to have this conversation within earshot of customers. That would just be embarrassing.

“Morgan?”

No answer. Bea took a few steps in, her heels clacking unnaturally loud on the worn, scuffed floor. “Hey, it's Bea. Can we talk?”

She didn't hear his voice, but an answering distant bark, followed by several meows, led her behind the desk, down the short hall of exam rooms, and to the door that led to the adjoining shelter. She pushed through and paused at the row of cats, sticking her fingers through to rub friendly kittens behind the ears.

Milton waited patiently behind her heels, backed as far away from the cage containing reaching, curious kitten paws as possible.

“Scared, Milton?” She laughed and gave him a quick rub. “You're bigger than they are, you know.”

He eyed them warily, but didn't advance. Either he didn't believe her, or he wasn't willing to chance it.

“Let's go find Morgan.” She wandered farther, past the few empty cages left open for overnight guests of the vet clinic. Nobody here, so he must not have had any spays or neuters the day before.

She found him another thirty seconds later, scooping food into multiple silver dishes. He looked ridiculously adorable, standing there in his nice khakis and his dress shirt, sleeves all rolled up, with his tie slung back behind him. His glasses, those sexy thin wire frames, slid down his nose, and his hair was falling into his eyes. He probably could barely see what he was doing. As she edged closer, she heard him muttering to himself.

“Cage two gets a half feeding. Cage three is three-fourths feeding, cages five through seven are full . . . no. Seven's a half.”

“Seven's a full,” she corrected, then clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh as he yelped and scattered food.

He straightened, then stared in exasperation at the mess. Milton left her side to play vacuum.

“I'm sorry,” she said between swallowed laughs. “I thought you'd heard me calling out before now.”

“I've been too damn busy trying to figure all this out.” He let the scoop fall back into the massive tub of food. “You should get him out of here before he eats it all and gets sick.”

“Milton, come.” Bea patted her thigh, but he ignored her. “Come now.”

He sucked up another piece of kibble, tail wagging so fast it could churn butter.

“Dumb dog,” she muttered, but picked him up and cradled him against her shoulder. He groaned in response.

“He's not going to think of himself like a dog if you keep carrying him around like a baby. He thinks he's a person. And . . .” Morgan took a step, slipping a little on the kibble, and pushed his glasses up over his nose with one finger, squinting. “Are those shoes?”

“Dog booties.” She held up one paw. “Aren't they cute? They keep his little paws warm on the cold sidewalk. He doesn't like to be cold.”

“I'd guess he doesn't like to be embarrassed either, but it's too late.”

She scowled, then turned on her heel. “I'll just leave you to play cleanup, then.”

“No, wait. I'm sorry. He looks cute in booties. Just come back and help me, please, I beg you.”

He sounded so lost and frazzled she couldn't say no. “Scoop some of that up and then I can put him down.”

Morgan reached into the closet and grabbed a broom and dust pan, then haphazardly swept up stray kibble kernels until the floor was passably clean. Bea set Milton down. Without the food to inhale, he stuck to her like glue.

“Can you just go down the row of cages and read out what the cards say on each one, so I get the serving sizes right without running back and forth?”

She headed to cage one, which held a duo of what looked like basset hound mixes. “Oh, aren't you two cute?” She reached in and scratched one behind its long ear. The other bounded over and flopped on his brother, scrambling for her attention. They licked at her fingers, rubbed against the metal fencing, jumped, and pounced on each other to gain the advantage.

“Bea, the card?”

“Oh, sorry. This one is two half servings.” She glanced down at Milton, who sat patiently at her side. “Not jealous of the attention I'm giving these guys?”

Milton stared at the two pups in what could only be canine disgust. His look all but shouted
have some dignity, fools.

“That's my boy,” she murmured, then moved down the line, reading out cards. At each cage, she had to stop and share some love, though she didn't open anyone's door. Too risky with Milton. All dogs that were up for adoption were temper tested before being considered. She remembered that from reading the paperwork that came with Milton. But still, it was never a great idea to mix two dogs on short notice. And some of these guys were three times his size.

After cage ten, the last one not designated for vet clinic patients, she looked around. “I think some of these guys are still here from when I adopted Milton. How sad.”

“Yeah. It's getting harder to handle the influx. We're the only shelter for nearly forty-five minutes. And now that my hopes of having a partner fell through—”

“Partner?” Bea's head snapped around.

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his neck, a weary gesture that made her want to walk over and rub his shoulders. “I had set up an interview with another vet, and she was supposed to come in and help pick up some slack. Would have given me a chance to expand the shelter work a bit more. But she balked at the rural area.” He grinned at her, but his eyes were more solemn. “Some city girls just can't adapt like you.”

“Please,” she muttered, but was stupidly pleased at the compliment.

Morgan brought over the last dog's food, then slipped it in the small slot designated for food delivery and headed back to clean up the food prep area. “So we're back to where we started, just me and my merry band of helpers, doing what we can to save the world one fuzz butt at a time. And so many ranches still don't bother to spay or neuter their dogs. They figure it's no big deal if they have pups, since every ranch needs a working dog. But when you get a litter with twelve pups . . .”

“Not all are going to be needed.” She sighed, understanding his frustration. He had such a great mission started, and she loved his caring heart.

And now she was going to squish him by turning down the job, just like the unknown vet who had stood him up on the partnership. Dammit. How was it, no matter how hard she tried to avoid being cruel, life seemed to set her up to be the Coldhearted Bitch anyway?

“Morgan, I . . .”

He grabbed her hand, cutting her off. “Bea, you have no idea what your help means to me right now.”

“Oh.”
Do it now. Rip off the bandage.
“I—”

“I know the pay sucks, and it's not easy work necessarily. And this isn't your life's ambition. But your jumping in to take this job makes it easier for me to keep up with the shelter responsibilities.”

“But I'm a screwup,” she said automatically.

His eyes held hers, mesmerizing her through slightly smudged lenses. “You're the right person for this job. I know it. You're going to be a blessing for me. I mean
us
. The shelter and the clinic.”

Pow.
Right in the kisser. She looked around at the poor, sad dogs all stuck behind their bars. Heard the begging pleas of the kittens behind her to let them out to play. Milton, almost on cue, leaned into her leg for a quick reassuring snuggle.

The cosmos was against her.

“I can't stay forever.”

He nodded.

“I'll help find my replacement, though. I can interview them or . . . something.”

His smile was all boyish hope.

She sighed and reached up for his glasses. He blinked in surprise as she removed them and used the corner of the cute new tank she'd ordered from Marc Jacobs online—on clearance, naturally—to clean the smudges off. “There.” Without thinking, she replaced them. Her fingertips brushed back behind his ears as she straightened the glasses.

His body heat poured off him from the morning's exertions. She'd had to step in close to reach up his tall frame, despite being five-ten herself. And only now did it occur to her she was all but slathered to the front of him like some horny teenager at the homecoming dance. She took a healthy step back, her heel sliding just a little on the concrete floor.

He caught her at the elbows, though she'd already steadied herself enough. “Careful. Might want to rethink the shoe choice from now on.”

“Oh. You don't like them?” Almost automatically, she popped one foot out to the side and pouted, a face that seemed to drive men crazy when she pulled it. “I thought they were cute.”

He frowned at her a second, then shook his head. “They're impractical. I won't tell you what to wear, but I'd prefer you didn't break your ankle. That's just going to make more work for everyone.”

Then, with a pat on her shoulder, he just brushed past her and toward the clinic side of the building.

Well. That was a first, in many respects. And wait a minute. Did she still have a job?

“Milton?”

The dog peeked up, offering a paw as if to say
you can take these booties off now. I have a feeling we're gonna stay.

“Yeah.” She squatted down, the heels giving her an advantage. “We're gonna stay. For now, anyway.”

 

Morgan slipped into his tiny office and shut the door, leaning his head back against the cold wood and shutting his eyes. His fist clenched and unclenched, and his mind focused intensely on the contraction of the muscles in his hand and forearm. A tactic he'd learned early in his hormonal years to stave off an ill-timed boner.

She was going to stay, though he'd sensed she'd been about to quit before even getting started. Shaking his fist out, he wiped his wrist over his forehead, then grimaced at the sweat staining the top of his cuff. Some verbal tiptoeing and cutting her off had done the trick, at least for now. But it bothered him to hear her call herself a screwup. He could appreciate and laugh at self-deprecating humor. But that didn't strike him as humor so much as just stating what she considered to be obvious.

And that little pouty act with the practiced pose, modeling her shoes? What the hell was that? The simple man-beast in him had appreciated the way she'd looked, like a perfect combo of sweet innocence wrapped in a sexy as sin package. But the thinking part realized immediately it'd been too effortless, too smooth. Like it was just another trick in her arsenal.

Somehow, somewhere she'd gotten the idea she had no value other than her looks. Her acting likely hadn't done anything to discourage the notion, but he had a feeling the roots ran deeper than that.

He stood still, listened as Bea and that dog-baby she loved so intensely walked back through the doors to the clinic area and up to the reception desk. Likely she'd brought the dog because she hadn't thought she'd be here long. He didn't care if she brought him daily. He was well-behaved enough—and chill enough about other animals—to not be an issue. One of his techs often brought her own massive golden retriever, because he was too old to stay home alone now, and the sweet thing curled up on a bed in the back storage area most of the time.

Part of him couldn't help but wonder . . . had he hired her because he'd been struck dumb by her since the day she'd shown up at the M-Star? He could barely remember her as a child. She'd just been too far below him age-wise to make an impression. If Peyton had been Trace's younger sister, Bea had just been “the baby” to his boyish train of thought. Hardly worth a second glance. But now . . . she was worth a lifetime of glances, as far as he was concerned.

Maybe he wanted to see her succeed more than she did. Maybe the job would be a disaster. He immediately shook that thought off, as he heard Bea coo to Milton for performing some trick or another in the front lobby. She'd proven herself in those few moments the day before; at least she was more capable than he of handling the phone and customers. She could do this. He hadn't imagined her skills.

And if his mother was right, and it turned out to be a disaster, he'd figure out a way to fix it. Morgan was fairly certain he wasn't so blind with lust that he would risk the reputation of his clinic or the shelter just to make a pretty woman happy.

They'd see how it went. And he had a feeling, come hell or high water, Beatrice was going to prove herself a worthy partner. She was a Muldoon, after all. They never did say die.