Page 38 of Fight For Me

I get the lid off the bowl and see that in addition to slices of chicken breast, he also included an apple, some rice, and half a slice of leftover pizza.

“You packed a whole feast.”

“There’s peanut butter in my hoodie pocket,” he explains, a little sheepish. “I wasn’t sure what he would like best.”

I bite back my grin. Wyatt Warner is a softie.

The dog makes another whimper when I hold the chicken out. The space between the retaining wall and the box isn’t that big and I wonder how in the heck he managed to wedge himself in there. I stick my arm as far down into the gap as I can but the dog remains stubbornly at the other end. I place the food down on the concrete, thinking he might be more likely to try and grab it if it isn’t attached to a strange human. Still nothing.

“This is so frustrating,” Wyatt grumbles. “If my damn arm wasn’t in this thing, I could just climb on top of the electrical box and pull him out from the top.”

“That probably wouldn’t be safe. If he’s hurt, he might get defensive and bite you.” I reach as far as I can to slide the chicken a little closer to him. “This way is better. We need to show him that he can trust us.”

“Try the pizza,” Wyatt suggests. “My college roommate had a dog and he went freaking nuts whenever we had pizza. Dude would have lived on pizza crust if we let him.”

“We need a stick,” I say. “If we get the food closer, we might be able to draw him out.”

Wyatt finds a stick a few feet away and I tear a chunk of pizza from the slice. He uses the stick to push the food toward the cowering animal, stopping a few inches away, just far enough that the dog will have to move to get to it.

“Come on, dude,” he grumbles. “Don’t have all night here.”

“Wyatt, you need to talk sweeter,” I chastise. “Look at him! He’s terrified.”

He huffs but his voice is soft when he speaks again. “Come here, buddy,” he murmurs. “I won’t hurt you. Come get some food. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

His soothing words wash over me and I let myself pretend, for just a minute, that he’s talking to me in that soft, sweet whisper. I fleetingly wonder if it would be easier to fall asleep if I had Wyatt Warner around to talk to me in that voice.

“Look,” he whispers, excited, and I turn my attention back to the dog—who’s now squeezing his way through the gap toward the food. He sniffs at the pizza then gobbles it up, chewing it so fast I’ve barely blinked before it’s gone.

“He’s probably starving,” I say, tearing another piece off the slice and handing it to Wyatt to push toward the dog. We work like that for a few minutes, giving him more food, each piece placed closer to us, making the dog work his way toward the exit. The space is small and he’s clearly struggling to squeeze through. He’s also limping more than a little bit, confirming Wyatt’s suspicion that he’s hurt.

When the dog’s head finally emerges, Wyatt grins over at me, the sincerity of his expression making my breath catch. Why the hell does this man have to be so damn beautiful?

“Here you go, buddy,” he says softly, holding up the last—and biggest—piece of pizza. “Come all the way out now.”

I’m not sure what to expect when the dog takes his first tentative step out into the open. Will he run away now that he’s free? Will he be defensive and aggressive with us? What I definitely don’t expect is for him to go straight to Wyatt and nestle into his side, letting out a relieved-sounding sigh as he stares up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“Looks like you’ve made yourself a friend,” I say, my heart clenching strangely at the sight of Wyatt gently patting the dog’s head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more attractive than Wyatt Warner rescuing a dog.

“Good job,” he murmurs in that same soft, comforting voice. “That was hard work, wasn’t it?”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my tone unaffected. “You can add pet rescuer to your resume now.”

Wyatt snorts. “I think the pizza did most of the work.” Then he looks at me over the dog’s mangey, filthy head. “So, uh, any clue what the heck we should do now?”

Wyatt

If you’d asked me two months ago, the last thing I would have ever expected to be doing at any point in the future was sitting next to Alex Fraser on the floor of her bathroom with a filthy stray dog in the shower stall in front of us.

“Any idea how to wash a dog?” she asks after a moment of the two of us staring at him.

“Nope,” I admit. We look at the dog. He looks back. “I guess we could start by getting him wet?”

Alex stands and pulls the shower head off the hook on the wall. I stare hard at the dog, willing myself not to look up as she hovers over me, her t-shirt pulling up to show off a strip of tanned skin at her waist.

The dog stares back and I’m pretty sure his eyes are telling me that I’m totally screwed.

Not news to me, buddy.