Page 90 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Nothing.” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to rid it of a thought, and links his fingers with mine. We smile like goofy teenagers for a moment, like there isn’t a care in the world and this is the only thing that matters.

“I just thought, with how hard you’ve been working to get me back on the field, and everything with your dad, that you could use some extra loving.”

“It’s perfect.” I feel like I’ve used that word a million times while we’ve been here, and I’m not sure if I have, or if I’ve just thought it, but it’s true. The trees. The sun. The clear sky. The furry flurry. And Easton. How much better could it get?

“I guess Melinda typically has some high school kids come out and volunteer to help her here at Pet Haven. They give the dogs some extra attention or give them baths when people are coming out to possibly adopt them, but there’s some big school function this week, so they’re not available . . . and so I volunteered us.”

“How long have you been involved with the organization?”

“Since about two days ago.” He laughs and goes to lean back on his elbows, quickly realizing what a huge mistake that is as he’s smothered in canine tongues and pawing paws. His laughter carries over the landscape and sounds so carefree, so relaxed, it makes me smile. When he can finally sit back up, after giving equal loving to the dogs around him, it hits me what he just said.

“Wait. Just two days ago?”

He nods. “The night I had to head out to take care of my mom? Melinda was there to help rescue a dog who broke free one street down. I ended up helping her get him back, and we started talking. I told her about you and how you were missing puppy love.”

“But wait . . . didn’t she just say something about a donation that would help feed the animals for . . .” I narrow my eyes as I put two and two together, and he nods slowly, trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “Easton Wylder, how much money did you donate so I could pet dogs?”

“I love when you get all Easton Wylder on me.” He laughs at the same time I realize how ungrateful I sound. I begin to backpedal and explain that I don’t need to be impressed, because I already am—with everything about him—but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the backside of it, which cuts me off before I can get the words out. “First of all, Kitty, I never donate to charity to impress a girl. I donate because I want to. Because I’ve been blessed beyond measure in my life. It didn’t hurt that I know you love dogs. And it definitely doesn’t hurt that bringing you here might get me extra brownie points I can cash in for my benefit.” He lifts his eyebrows and one corner of his mouth curls up. “But I did it because I wanted to and because they need more love than most to prove that not everyone is going to hurt them or leave them behind.”

I look at him for a split second, hear the subtle parallel he’s drawing to my life, and wonder what man does this. What man would pay enough attention to what I need and then go out and find a way to reassure me the one way he knows I’ll hear?

I scoot next to him, the grass cool beneath my skirt and the sun heating my skin, but it’s the man whose shoulder I just put my head on that keeps on warming my heart. And so we sit there for a bit and just enjoy our canine company and the fact that we don’t have to speak to fill the silence. We can just sit here in a field of grass with the breeze on our cheeks and let the idea of there being an us settle between us.

“You brought me to see doggies,” I finally say, and there’s no other way to describe my voice other than completely enamored with him and what he did for me.

“I figured it would tide you over until you can get one for yourself.”

If it were possible for my heart to break free of my rib cage and flop onto the ground, then that’s what it would be doing right now. That hard heart of mine doesn’t seem so hard any more. Not when it comes to Easton Wylder, at least.

And as much as I want more of this with him—as much as I think I’m ready—it still scares the shit out of me. The idea that I’m cursed is still alive in my mind, despite the most incredible past month.

“I love this.”

I love you.

The thought is there. And once it’s there, it takes hold and won’t let go, no matter how hard I push it away, try to run from it, try not to be freaked by it.

Because I am.

“Thank you so much, Melinda, for letting us come out here today.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” Melinda says to me, but I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said, because her attention is on the field to the left of the house. Her two boys, ages ten and twelve, are standing there with bats in their hands while Easton gives them pointers about their stances. The looks on their faces are priceless, complete idolization, and yet Easton continues his lesson, making them laugh and kidding around with them.

He’s good with kids.

And with dogs.

And with his sick mom.

And with spooked women.

Is there anything this man can do to make me not like him?

Because I’m beginning to think he might need to do that, so I don’t start believing he hung the moon.

Or stole my heart.

“You smell like dog.” She laughs, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek before settling in the passenger seat.