Chapter Two

AJ

"You're being a big baby about it," I told Samson, my Lab/Golden Retriever mix, who was letting out pathetic little whimpers as I sat there behind the front desk at the doggy daycare I worked at, stitching his favorite toy—a stuffed carrot almost as big as he was—back together again. "I did tell you not to bring him today, didn't I?" I added as I finished the last stitch.

"Uh oh," Ella, my coworker, said as she walked in from the back, her all-black uniform covered in various shades of dog hair. "Is it surgery time? Who hurt your best friend, buddy?" she asked, walking over to Samson, and giving his head a rub with both hands that had him momentarily forgetting about his baby.

"Dodger wanted to play tug-of-war with it," I said.

"He's a beast," Ella said of the hyperactive Dalmatian to Samson, shaking her head. "Gotta keep your toys at home where they're safe from now on," she added as she came behind the desk to fetch a lint roller, trying to get rid of some of the hair before she got into her car.

Ella was in her mid-thirties with two girls—a tween and a teen—that were mirror images of her. Wavy blonde hair, long, lean limbs, round faces with big brown eyes, and the best smiles I'd ever seen.

On the days when Ella was working to take care of our overnight boarding guests, you could almost always find the girls right in the building with her.

"If my shitty ex found out I left the girls alone, even though they're old enough, he would have me back in court in a minute flat," she said.

Ella's ex didn't want custody. He barely took advantage of his visitation rights he'd taken her to court for years before. He just enjoyed making Ella's life a living hell.

Luckily, her girls loved the dogs and were still young enough not to be completely annoyed to be stuck with their mom in their free time.

"Is Tucker here yet?" she asked, glancing around for our relief.

Most of the dogs were gone for the day, save for two of the dogs whose owners called to say they were running late. And, of course, the three that were boarding overnight.

"No, but go get your girls. I'm fine here until he gets in. You know how he is," I added, shrugging.

Tucker was the sweetest Golden Retriever guy who just… got easily distracted. By pretty flowers on the side of the road. By a groundhog eating grass. By particularly interesting cloud formations. The guy was never on time because of it. But he was so nice that you couldn't even be mad at him about it.

"Can you believe he got his masters?" she asked, shaking her head. "How'd he focus in class?"

I was more interested in why, if he had his masters, he was working at The Paw Palace for minimum wage and unreliable hours.

I mean, yeah, this was New Jersey, and the minimum wage was good, but still. It wasn't "masters degree" income. Not even close.

"A masters in what?" I asked.

"Applied statistics," Ella said, reaching up to pull her hair out of her claw clip, letting the golden strands fall around her shoulders. "I looked it up once. He could be making like a hundred-sixty a year. And yet… here he is," she said as his van pulled into the lot. "In his home."

Yeah, Tucker lived in his van. By choice, not because he couldn't afford an apartment or something like that. We all managed to have our own places on this salary. He just claimed it was ‘too stressful' to have an apartment or house.

It was actually a pretty nice van. He'd undeniably put a lot of work into it to turn it from a utility van without any windows to a livable space, complete with a full-sized bed and a mini kitchen. As for a bathroom, well, he was a guy. The side of the road worked in a pinch.

"Good lord," Ella said, letting out an airy laugh as she looked out of the front doors. "What could have distracted him already?"

I leaned over the desk and, sure enough, there was Tucker with his shaggy, dirty blond head ducked, looking at something on the pavement.

"Okay. I'm out. The little one is having three of her friends over tonight for a sleepover. And everything I do or say is embarrassing now, apparently. So… wish me luck," she said, slinging her giant purse over her shoulder and heading out.

She called out something to Tucker that had his head snapping up, shooting her a megawatt smile that had to draw in women. Though, whether he could keep one when he was so flighty was the question.

"What were you looking at?" I asked when he came in a moment later, immediately squatting down to give Samson all the belly rubs his heart desired.

"A little ant funeral procession," he said, nodding. "Amazing how such little creatures honor their dead. We're really not that far removed from the animals," he added. "You look smashing today," he declared as he came up to the desk.

Tucker was a big compliment giver.

He always found something about everyone he encountered to comment on, to gush about. It was actually a trait I was trying hard to implement into my life. Because, I mean, who didn't love a genuine compliment? And you never knew, your kind words could turn someone's awful day right around.

"Thank you. This is from the new Double-Coat-Blowing line," I said, gesturing to the fur covering me.

"The only fur coat that would have my approval," he said, finally moving behind the desk to check over the information about the boarders.

Once you got Tucker on a task without distractions, he worked, pardon the pun, doggedly at things. The man once took all of the daycare's files and turned them digital overnight. It was thousands and thousands of files.

"Is the carrot going to make it?" he asked as I tied off the end of the thread.

"He will live to see another day," I said, tossing the carrot to Samson, who immediately started violently shaking it, threatening to take down the display shelf full of dog treats and cute little holiday bandanas with little turkeys and pumpkins on them.

"So, where are you off to?" Tucker asked. "Hot date?" he asked.

God, no.

No dates.

Never again, in fact.

I was halfway to becoming re-virginized at this point. And I was totally okay with that.

"Yep. A hot date with some Chinese takeout and a thousand piece puzzle."

"Oh, you wild child, you," he teased, his blue eyes bright.

"Living right on that edge," I agreed, gathering my things, and stuffing them into my bag. "Do you need me to do anything before I head out?" I asked.

"I'm all set," he said. "Send me a pic of the puzzle when you finish it."

Tucker was kind enough to call my puzzles my ‘creative outlet.' This was an especially kind comment coming from someone who actually wrote really beautiful poetry. We often found half-finished poems scribbled on the edges of paperwork or on sticky notes stuck to the bottom of our shoes.

Alas, I didn't have an actual creative bone in my body, much to my chagrin. I'd always been envious of people who could write, paint, draw, sing, or anything like that.

"That's Maisie's owners," I told Tucker, seeing the red SUV pulling in as I slipped Samson's leash on, and started to push out of the door. "Have a good night!"

Tucker's words were on my mind as I made my way toward the house, Chinese food scents filling up the car, thinking about the kitchen table with the puzzle board set upon it.

You wild child, you.

He'd just been teasing.

He meant nothing by it.

But the words stung the more I thought about them.

Because a part of me, a bigger part of me than I felt comfortable even acknowledging anymore, craved experiences and fun.

I just couldn't have that.

Quiet and calm were safe.

And that was the most important thing to me, I reminded myself as I pulled into the driveway of the little ranch I'd been renting for the better part of this year.

It was a sweet little house with a fenced backyard for Samson to run off his energy in, and a fully furnished interior, so I didn't have to worry about spending any more money than absolutely necessary to stay there.

Though I did sometimes see a cute lamp, or a great shade of paint, and wish I could make the place a little more my own.

Someday,I reminded myself as I parked, grabbed the Chinese, then unclipped Samson's leash, knowing he would follow me right in through the garage like usual.

He was always beat on the nights after he came to the daycare with me, spending his days playing with all the other dogs. He would beeline for his orthopedic bed, curl up, and sleep for hours before even thinking about things like going outside and having dinner.

I kicked off my shoes in the mud room, then made my way right into the kitchen.

It was a small space, but was big enough for one person to move around and make a meal in. It was kind of dated with its dark wood cabinets that made the space feel a bit claustrophobic, and the stainless steel fridge didn't match the black dishwasher or the white oven.

But, hey, I was renting this place on a song.

I wasn't about to complain that it didn't fit my aesthetic.

"What, bud?" I called at the little whimpering noises Samson was making from the living room.

He had a love/hate relationship with the squirrels that were loving the hell out of the acorns in the trees in the front yard, little furry tails coming back a hundred times a day to snatch up some acorns, and take them away to store for the winter.

"Is it the squir—" I started as I moved out into the living room.

Where my smile fell immediately.

Because there on my couch… was a man.

I gasped, rushing back into the kitchen, and snatching a frying pan out of the drainboard before making my way back toward the living room, my hand going to my pocket for my phone, only to stop before I could fish it out.

I couldn't call the police.

That wasn't an option.

So… what the hell was I supposed to do about this?

Before I could even form an idea, though, the amazingly—in this case, annoyingly—friendly Samson rushed over, and started to lick the stranger's face.

And, I mean, fine.

It was a good face.

Like… male model good.

Those cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and a great, high forehead leading up to some lush dark hair.

But being gorgeous didn't mean he was any more welcome in my house.

The intruder became alert with a start, his big chocolatey-brown eyes going wide, confused, as he looked at Samson, then me. With my frying pan lifted high like I was going to hit him with it.

I wasn't going to.

When it came to fight or flight, my system definitely leaned a lot more toward flight.

But I was sure if he tried to attack me, that I could pummel him with it before I ran for my life.

The thing was, he shot up, and the movement made the blanket fall off of him and onto the floor.

And I realized he really wasn't going to come for me.

Because he looked like he'd just gotten out of the hospital.

A big, bulky cast was peeking out of the leg of his pants, thickening his leg all the way up his thigh. His arm was in a sling. And several of his fingers had little braces on them.

Not only that, but as he tried to shoot up, pain splashed across his face, making him fall back on the cushions, quietly cursing under his breath as he pressed a hand to his ribs.

Despite being an unwanted guest, I felt a pang of sympathy for him as his breath came out of his nose in quick, shallow huffs.

When he finally seemed to relax, I started to speak.

"What are you doing in my house?"

The thing was, though… he asked the same question… at the same time.

"What?" I asked, head jerking back. "What did you say?"

"I said," he said, voice tight. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Your house?" I asked, looking around, wondering if he was whacked out on pain meds and simply… entered the wrong house by accident. "This is my house."

"Got a fucking six-inch pile of paperwork in the closet that says otherwise," he said, glancing over at me with those pretty eyes with all their thick, black lashes around them.

"Listen, sir, I think you might be a little whacked out," I told him, voice slow like I was speaking to someone particularly dense. "And walked into the wrong house."

"Sir?" he repeated with a snort.

And, I mean, maybe he was a bit young for a ‘sir.' But men tended to think you were being condescending if you called them ‘bud' or ‘hun' or anything like that.

"How about I call someone for you?" I suggested, this time reaching for my phone, and pulling it out. Though I still wasn't letting go of the frying pan. "Who would you like to call?"

"The police. To get this chick and her dog outta my damn house," he said.

"Listen, sir—" I started again, losing my patience with him little by little. I was tired and hungry and just wanted to be alone.

"Atlas," he cut me off. "My name is Atlas Rivers. And this is my house."

"Look, Atlas," I started, "this is my… wait," I said, brows pinching. "Did you say Rivers?"

"Yep. Atlas Rivers. That's my name. And this is my damn house."

Atlas… Rivers?

Rivers?

That couldn't be a coincidence, right?

"Um, you wouldn't, by any chance, be related to a Kingston Rivers, would you?" I asked.

At that, the man's brows drew low as he slowly pulled himself up to a seated position, but not without a lot more cursing.

"That's my brother. Kingston, Nixon, and Rush. My brothers. You know them?"

"I, ah, yeah," I said. "I work at the doggy daycare where Kingston and Savea board their dogs when they travel," I said.

"Great. Six degrees of separation and all that. But why are you in my house?"

"Because I rent it," I told him, my free hand already sliding my phone unlocked, and toggling over to Kingston's number.

"You rent my house? My house?"

"Surely, there must be some sort of… misunderstanding," I said, my heartbeat tripping into overdrive.

This could not be happening.

I needed this house.

There was no way this was just a misunderstanding, right? Surely Kingston would have known that his brother… wanted to live in his own house?

But then… why had I been living here for months without ever seeing this handsome man named, of all things, Atlas Rivers?

"Uh, hi, yeah, Kingston, this is A…AJ…" I said into the phone, the stress of the moment making me trip over the nickname I was now going by.

"Yeah, AJ. Is everything alright? Did something break?" he asked.

He'd been an amazing landlord. The best I'd ever come across, in fact. I once called to ask if I could use the shop vac in the garage because heavy rains had made some water leak into the basement, and he'd rushed over to suck it all up by himself. At two in the morning. And didn't even make it seem like an inconvenience.

"No, actually, um. I don't know how to say this. But I'm standing here looking at a man who claims that the house I've been renting is… his."

There was a pause.

One long enough to make my belly drop.

"I'll be right over."

With that, he hung up.

"He's coming over, isn't he?" Atlas asked.

"Yes."

"Shit," Atlas said, his gaze looking down at himself, lost in his own worries.

I didn't have time for his concerns, though, not when a million of my own were swirling around in my mind.

Because if I couldn't keep this house rental, I honestly had no freaking idea what I was going to be able to do.