The Love Child

“I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the felt lightly. Was she subconsciously drawn to it?

Awareness tumbled through him as he drank in her slender features—the tipped nose, the confidence.

“Fine.” He nodded. “You first.”

She clicked her tongue. “Testing the trust issue. Okay, I would go back to school and study clothing design. Now your turn.”

“Archeology. I can see myself sifting through the earth at an excavation site.” He brought the bottle to his lips, imagining what it’d be like to be immersed in an excavation pit in some remote location. No press. Few people. Yeah, he could live like that.

“So you’re a patient man with an attention to detail.”

His brow raised and he tilted the bottle, which caused the ale to slosh slightly. A contained wave. “I guess you could say that.”

“Nice to know. The ideas are churning in my mind already.”

She was sure learning a lot about him, and he wasn’t finding out a damn thing of importance about her.

He set aside his beer and strode toward the yellow Lab. “Tell me about your dog.”

Isabeau’s spine went straight and she closed her notebook slowly, her eyes averted. “She’s a Labrador retriever, she’s three and a half years old, and her name is Paige.”

Obvious. But if she didn’t want to talk about the fact that Paige wore a service dog vest with patches and lettering, then he wasn’t going to be rude. He’d just been trying to make conversation.

Not his strength.

Turning, she flashed an overbright, tense smile. “You can ask. I was just messing with you by giving those obvious answers. Take it as a tip on how to avoid questions you don’t want to answer.”

“Touché. I apologize if I shouldn’t have asked about your working dog. I was just trying to fill the awkward silence. I should have asked about your favorite vacation spot or what made you pick this job or something.”

“Those would have been good conversation starters. But I’m comfortable discussing Paige with you. It’s more the strangers approaching me with questions that are bothersome. I’ve even had people accuse her of being a fake working dog since I don’t ‘appear’ disabled.” She shook her head, that spiral of red hair sliding along her shoulder. “Paige alerts to my diabetes.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

She stacked her binders. “It’s not like you and I are besties.”

He took another step closer, setting the beer on the desk, the tempting scent of her perfume swirling around him again. “But I know you. Or rather, I’ve noticed you and for some reason I didn’t notice your dog.”

“That’s a good thing. If she’s drawing attention to herself, she’s not doing her job. Well, unless I were to be in some kind of health crisis, then she would get help or bring my medication. But she’s very good at what she does. Since I’ve added her to my life, she’s kept me from getting so distracted I miss drops or spikes in my glucose level.”

“So I shouldn’t pet her.”

“Not while she’s wearing her cape.” That tight-lipped, tense smile returned as her head gave a curt, dismissive shake.

“Cape?”

“Vest. She understands that when she’s wearing it, she’s working. When it’s off, she can play like any other dog.”

“Ah, okay. Does it bother you that I’m asking about this?” An intrusion into his own life would’ve been met with some resistance if the roles were reversed. And the last thing he wanted to do was make Isabeau feel isolated.

“Actually, no. It’s good to have something to talk about while I work.”

“How does she detect your blood sugar?”

“She senses it by smell.”

“Like a drug dog?”

“Or hunting dog, or search-and-rescue dog. Same premise, but fine-tuned. Not all service dogs can do it. Some do tasks like get help if there’s a problem or bring medicines or steady the person if they’re feeling faint. But she’s got that something extra.” With a stretch, Isabeau’s spine arched back, drawing his eye as she settled against the desk again. “There. I have all I need to order your new wardrobe. Some of it has to be special-ordered, but I can pick up what you’ll need for your sister’s wedding.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. But I hope you know that clothes aren’t going to change the core of who I am or what I say.”

There. He’d thrown down the gauntlet.

He’d enjoyed this fitting session a helluva lot more than he ever would have expected. And he knew without question that the woman in front of him had made all the difference in the day. Already he looked forward to their next sparring match.

So why not make the most of this month of jumping through social hoops?

His hand whispered against her impossibly soft skin, tension mounting as their eyes locked. “The best way to keep my rogue mouth in line is to stay right by my side. Be more than a media consultant. Be my date for my sister’s wedding.”

Two (#u8ee3e7c0-ec70-5c37-afc7-4e681f1edaf3)

When she’d been a kid, Isabeau, like other little girls, had dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding of her own. Her mother had even spun those fantasies with her. Except her mom’s prince charming had walked out, and even though her mother kept telling the stories, Isabeau stopped believing. She wasn’t sure she even knew what a healthy dating relationship was, between her mother’s experiences and her own.

So how had she let herself get talked into being Trystan’s date at a family wedding? She’d said yes before she could think, her mind somehow losing its edge around this man.

A dozen times over the past two days she’d planned to tell him it was a silly idea.

And every time, she’d found a reason to delay until here they were, together, at a Mikkelson-Steele wedding.

Sure it was a small ceremony at the Steele family compound by the water, but still. Simple to these people still involved big money and security guards.

She wasn’t his date, not in the romantic sense. Although Trystan was playing it to the hilt, his arm draped over her shoulders as the bride and groom exchanged vows.

Trystan leaned closer, whispering against her ear, “Do you feel okay?”

“I’m fine, just fine,” Isabeau insisted quickly, then caught herself up short. “Why would you ask that?”

“Your face is all scrunched.”

“That’s rude.” The mutter eked out between her lips, which were lifted in a tight smile. Though to be completely honest, she could feel the vise grip of tension in her teeth and furrowed brow.

“My apologies.” His voice was low, but the lilt to his tone was light. Teasing. “Your gorgeous face is all scrunched?”

“Better, slightly.”

“We’re at a wedding. Pretend you aren’t checking your watch wondering how much longer until the reception, like the rest of us are.”

“That’s not true. I’m enjoying the view. The sun just made me squint for a second,” she lied through her teeth.