Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(37)

Dog. Poor thing. She needed a name.

“Hi, uh…” She thought of her mother’s neighbor’s basset mix and took a stab at it. “Bailey! Come here, Bailey.”

Dog’s ears stayed down, her mouth panting. No reaction to the name at all. Padding into the room, the dog came to Sofie, tongue out.

“How about… Spot?”

But she didn’t have “spots,” more like patches.

“Fluffy?” But that didn’t work, either. She may be fluffy someday, but at the moment her fur was thin and lank.

Sofie scratched the dog’s ears. Silver-blue eyes met hers, reminding her again of Donovan’s.

“Maybe we’ll name you after the woman who lived here last. That’s appropriate for a girl who lives in a mansion, wouldn’t you say?”

Dog licked her hand.

“Gertrude is too stately. How about Gertie?”

“Gertie” licked Sofie’s face. They had a winner.

“You have got to be kidding.”

She pulled her hand away from Gertie to see Donovan standing in the doorway of the library, taking up space in his own special way. He was good at choking a room—or a bar—with his presence.

“She likes it,” Sofie argued, scrubbing the dog’s head again. “Don’t you, Gert?”

“No.” His eyes went to the desk where she’d made herself at home. “This your new office?” She wondered if he knew his eyes flicked to the couch next.

She forcibly didn’t look, talking gibberish to Gertie instead who, in Sofie’s opinion, really did look like a Gertie.

When she continued ignoring him, he prompted, “Scampi.”

“I’m done in here.”

He took a brief look around and mumbled, “Stay as long as you like.”

Stunned, she said nothing, only continued to pet the dog. When she looked back to the doorway, he was gone.

“You live with a grouch bag, you know that?” she asked the dog.

Gertie licked Sofie’s chin.

“That’s okay,” she told the mutt. “We girls stick together.”

But that wasn’t true. Where Donovan was concerned, Sofie was on her own.





The thrift store truck had gone, but it wasn’t the last. He was nowhere near the bottom of Gertrude’s stuff piled in the basement. They’d be back, and Donovan would have another full load for them. Without a doubt.

Earlier, he left Sofie in the library and returned to the great room to chip away at the wounded fireplace. He’d avoided her today on purpose. Mainly because he didn’t trust himself to be within three feet of her and not grab her up and kiss her.

She’d stayed away from him today, too, he noticed, preferring to stay out of that perimeter. She must have meant it when she said she was trying to forget the kiss.

Good luck. Her taste had been all he thought about today.

He returned his attention to the jagged pieces of slate crumbling from the mortar, contented to distract himself. Didn’t work.

Seeing her in that library—seeing the couch. The only thing he could think about was the kiss last night and how he’d bet if he kissed her again she’d melt into him the same damn way. Maybe gift him a repeat of seven years ago.

He pounded at the fireplace, forcing his body’s attention to the physical act of tearing something apart. Cheap rocks. Cheap mortar. Cheap craftsmanship. Nothing he hated worse than a half-assed job. When he first spotted the rock crumbling to the floor, he told himself he’d slap it back into place and be done. Then he noticed a few other loose pieces.

So he pried those off. He noticed a few more and pried those off as well. With half the fireplace’s stones strewn across the plastic, he figured he may as well replace each and every one by hand. May extend his timeline, but getting back to what he did best would get his thoughts off the adorable event planner with the tempting mouth.

God knew hauling Gertrude’s shit to the curb wasn’t doing it.

Plus, he continued arguing with himself, Aless wouldn’t appreciate his new B-and-B falling down around his ears the moment he signed the closing papers. Donovan chipped another stone away and dropped it on the plastic knowing that wouldn’t happen. Yes, she needed a few repairs—Connor’s to-do list was a mile long—but structurally, the house was sound. Pate Mansion may be old, but she had good bones.

Not that he had an ounce of reverence for this house. Not for the curved staircase where he’d ridden the banister and as a result had been given a taste of the parquet flooring. Not the chair rail where he’d raced his favorite Hot Wheels car. Not this very room, where his father had thrown his lit cigarette followed by a full ashtray at him. Quick reaction time, Donovan shielded himself with an arm to deflect the cigarette, earning a burn for his trouble. He lifted a hand and rubbed the scar along his hairline. The crystal ashtray proved harder to miss.

Well, what the f*ck ever.

Dog’s shrill bark rang through the air, making him jerk in surprise. The chisel slipped off the stone, slicing his finger. He backed away from the fireplace and, much as he wanted to shout, swore under his breath. Dog was adverse to yelling, picked up on human emotions like a tuning fork. He’d seen it happen. Watched as her ears lowered and tail went down just because Donovan had raised his voice to call to Connor from upstairs. She was sensitive to human energy, likely because she’d been yelled at—and struck—by her former owners.