Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(8)

Part of me almost hopes Kress comes home, because I would love to exchange some words with him right now. But I know it’s better for Ana’s sake if he doesn’t. She doesn’t need to experience any more trauma today, and she certainly doesn’t need to watch me beat the shit out of him.

Ana returns, still wearing a pair of fitted jeans that show off how slender she is, and the T-shirt she had on before. But now she’s in sneakers and an oversized green cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She’s carrying a small white fluffy dog, and has a duffel bag slung over one slim shoulder.

Crossing the room toward her, I take the duffel bag and glance at the dog. “Who’s this?”

She clears her throat, looking shy for a moment. “This is Hobbes.”

I frown down at the creature currently wiggling in her arms. “Where can I take you?”

“I have a car,” Ana says, shifting Hobbes in her arms. Clearly, the dog wants down, but with the glass still on the floor, she won’t let him out of her grasp.

“Your foot isn’t in great shape. Let me drive you somewhere for the night, and I’ll bring you back tomorrow to get your car.”

“I don’t know.” She chews on her lower lip, thinking it over. “Let me try my friend Georgia again.”

Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, Ana dials, listening quietly as the phone rings. The frown that pulls on her lips tells me there was no answer.

“She didn’t pick up,” I say.

Ana shakes her head.

“Where can I take you?”

“A hotel will be fine.” Her voice is steady, even if I can tell she’s a little more shaken than she’s letting on.

I’m fine being the one to drive the getaway car, but she’s going to need someone to lean on, someone she can talk to. And let’s be honest, I’m not that guy. I need Ana’s friend to pick up the phone just as much as she does.

“Which one?” I say on an exhale.

She considers it for a moment. “That place with the orange roof next to the highway should be okay.”

I nod. I know of the place, but I’ve never stayed there. It’s a budget motel, cheap and no frills. “Got everything you need?”

“For now,” she says, taking one last look around the apartment.

I hope Jason’s not the vindictive type to destroy or dispose of her belongings. I doubt all the books lining those shelves are his. And it seems highly unlikely he would have picked out that funky purple armchair. But for now, I just want to get her out of here, so we have little choice but to leave it all behind.

“Is there food for him?” I ask, pausing by the door to look down at a still struggling Hobbes.

“Oh, crap. Yes, there is,” Ana says, turning back toward the kitchen.

“I’ll get it. Just tell me where to find it.”

“In the pantry. On the floor to the left,” she says, offering me a grateful smile.

I grab the small bag of dog food and then follow down the stairs behind Ana. She’s not limping, which is a good sign. Maybe her foot is okay. That, or she’s really good at faking.

When we reach the street, I do a quick sweep, looking for Jason, and Ana does too. Then she meets my eyes, and her mouth lifts in a shaky smile. I really have no idea how she’s so composed. Maybe she’s tougher than she looks, or maybe she’s barely holding on and will crash into a heap when she’s left to her own thoughts.

Shit.

Guiding her toward my car, I pop the trunk and place the duffel bag and dog food inside while Ana climbs in.

When I slip in beside her and start the engine, she lets out an exasperated sound.

“No, Hobbes. I have to hold you. You’ll mess up the leather.” Then she shoots me an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry about him. I’m sure you’ve never had a dog in your car. But I’ll hold him the whole time, and he really doesn’t shed much.”

The truth is I don’t even like this car. It was a stupid impulse buy after my financial advisor got on my case about the fact that I never spend any money on myself. Frankly, it pissed me off that he even noticed. But I guess when you manage other players who are buying themselves and their significant others sports cars and second homes, and vacationing in exotic locales multiple times a year, it doesn’t take a theoretical physicist to string together that I wasn’t exactly living large despite my $8 million salary.

My weekly visits to the grocery store and gas station, and getting my hair cut once a month, aren’t exactly on par with someone pulling in millions. Even if I do shop at the fancy organic grocery store.

“Don’t worry about the car. I’ll have it cleaned.”

She nods, still struggling to get the ten-pound beast settled in her lap.

When we reach the hotel, Ana heads inside to see if they have availability while I open the trunk to retrieve her things. But a few seconds later, she returns, shaking her head and wearing a frown.

“No vacancy?” I ask.

“The hotel doesn’t allow dogs.” A slow exhale leaves her lips, and her tone is defeated. “Nothing is going right for me today.”

A strange knot of pressure builds inside my chest as I close the trunk again. She looks so small, so sad, standing in the parking lot holding her dog. I thought I’d outgrown emotional responses like this, but maybe the occasional pang of concern is normal. Either that or I’m going soft.