Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,1
a janitor. The usual weekend guy called in sick.”
Rule #1 when it comes to hookups: Never tell them my real job.
Even if I don’t mention the off-the-website part of the job—the part involving secret government contracts—telling women I work for a security and investigation company leaves them with all kinds of alpha-hero fantasies.
It makes me, in their eyes, more desirable, more exciting, than someone who cleans an office building for a living.
The frown between Blondie’s eyebrows returns. “This is a really nice place for a janitor.”
I don’t dignify her comment with a reply.
Fortunately, she finally gets the hint, puts the mug on the counter, and heads upstairs to hopefully get changed. She returns a few minutes later in the dress she was wearing last night. Her hair is no longer messy.
“I had fun last night,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me. They miraculously don’t stick together this time. “I would love to see you again. Maybe we could catch a movie and dinner later this week?”
Her tone is not of someone hoping to be a booty call. It’s more along the lines of wanting something I can’t give—my heart.
Or what’s left of it.
No, a woman didn’t cheat on me or do me wrong. Just the opposite. My post-college girlfriend was the love of my life. I was positive she was it—the woman I would one day marry.
At least that had been my plan until she went out with friends. The next time I saw her, she was in a coma and on life support.
Her parents removed her from it a month later.
After that, I joined the military. And on more than one occasion witnessed a brother die—and each time, like with my girlfriend, I was unable to do anything about it.
“Sorry,” I tell Blondie, “but I told you last night it was a one-time-only deal. That hasn’t changed.”
She shrugs, the disappointment on her face nothing more than a flicker. A minute later, the front door clicks shut behind her.
I grab my jeep keys and head out the front door. The crisp November air is heavy with the promise of rain.
A faint whimper, almost a squeak, draws my attention to a bush on my property. I walk over to the sound and crouch next to the bush, where a small tangle of reddish-brown fur with large floppy ears lies.
“Hey, little guy, what are you doing here?”
The puppy lifts its head slightly and gives another whimper. It doesn’t have a collar, doesn’t look familiar.
I hold my hand out to him, letting him sniff it, and stroke his soft head. “Are you injured?” I don’t know a whole lot about dogs. My only real experience with them comes from my colleague’s dog, Mojo. Jayden’s dog is a Bernese mountain goofball who likes to hang out at the office and soak in as much attention as possible.
I scan the sidewalk, searching for the puppy’s owner. With the exception of several cars driving past, there’s no other sign of life.
I gently scoop him up and cradle him against my chest. He releases a soft, pained sound at the movement, but then he snuggles closer to me.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour vet clinic on the way to my office. I’ll drop you off there on my way to my meeting.”
I carry him inside the house, locate a box big enough to hold him, and cushion it with a towel. The puppy whimpers and licks my hand when I lower him into the box.
The clinic isn’t busy when I arrive—other than a talking parrot that keeps saying, “Spank me naughty boy,” two cats eyeing him with distrust, and a snoozing golden retriever.
The parrot’s owner is a woman in her midtwenties. Her blush deepens every time he speaks. “Would you quit saying that?” she mutters to the bird, sounding more than ready to stuff a cracker down his beak to shut him up.
While I wait for the puppy’s turn, I fire off a text to Liam, letting him know something came up, but I’ll be there as soon as possible.
Five minutes later, the puppy and I are in the exam room, and the vet is checking him over.
“He’s a little malnourished, and his front leg is sprained,” the man explains. “But he should fully recover in no time. I’d like to keep him for twenty-four hours to monitor his condition; then you can take him home.”
“He’s not my dog,” I remind him.
“He didn’t have a tattoo. Let me see if he has a microchip.”