Page 3 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

Shep stood at the stove, his back to her, wearing a worn-thin white t-shirt that clung flatteringly to the muscles of his back, the broad, flat planes of his shoulder blades.

He had a mermaid tattooed on the back of his left bicep, her colors muted from years of sun exposure, and it looked like she was swimming as he worked the spatula.

Tired and sore and a little nauseous, Cass was still an artist, and she took a moment to admire the little details she would include if she were painting him.

The sharp horizontal line at his nape where the barber had used the clippers to square off his new haircut.

The ropy veins that laced his forearm, visible when he reached up into the cabinet for the pepper.

The little worn place at the waistband of his joggers where the elastic showed through.

The nips and soft folds of the shirt where his waist tapered in sharply beneath his ribs.

He ate like crap, but he worked out hard and it showed in every part of him.

She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was there without turning his head. “You gonna eat if I plate this up?”

“Yeah.” She folded up into a corner of the couch and a few minutes later he came out bearing two heaped plates, two bottles of orange juice tucked under his arm.

“Chef Shep,” she said, instead of thank you .

He said, “Drink the juice. You need the sugar.”

The juice was very cold, and very welcome, and a few sips spurred her appetite. She crunched her bacon and said, “I really didn’t get wasted. I only had three sips.”

He nodded and swallowed a mouthful of eggs. “I know. Somebody drugged you.”

She froze with the piece of bacon halfway to her mouth. “I… what ?”

With his head tipped down over his plate, he glanced up through his lashes.

It was a look he’d probably given every man he’d ever decked—it had that energy—but she read it as come on .

“All the club parties you’ve been to, you’re gonna tell me there was fruit punch in all the cups I’ve seen you drinking out of?

Your alcohol tolerance isn’t that shitty. ”

She blushed, but lifted her nose to a superior angle. “I’m underage.”

“Uh-huh. Right. So three sips of weakass college kid vodka and you’re lights out? Someone dosed you.”

He was right, of course. A part of her had known it last night, while she was swimming inside her own head on the sidewalk. She’d known she was far too affected for the amount she’d drunk, and he was also right about the punch: it had been weakass. Vodka cut with water so it barely burned.

She didn’t want that to be true, though. “No, they’re my—”

“Friends?” He snorted. “No, they’re not.”

She sighed. “I wanted them to be.”

“Well, they’re not, so fuck ‘em,” he said, a sharp edge undercutting the dismissive words. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he stabbed the next forkful of eggs hard enough the fork tines skidded over the plate.

Oh. He was angry. He was furious.

But not at her, she didn’t get the sense.

The knowledge kindled a small, warm fire in her belly.

“Sig and his friends are all NYU legacies,” she said. “They’ve all had gallery shows. They’re, like, a big deal.”

“They’re big assholes,” he shot back. “What were you doing there? That was a house for rich pricks.”

She grinned. “You have seen where my sister lives, yes?” After things with Abacus settled down, Raven had decided to sell the flat she’d picked out herself, and she and Toly moved permanently into the safe house flat Ian had put them in, the building that looked like the one from Ghostbusters .

Shep scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “I saw that kid trying to push a drink on you last night. I know his type. All the money in the world and they still act like fucking creeps.”

Cass’s opinion of Sig was rapidly swirling down the toilet, but seeing Shep riled up about him was fascinating. “It was water.”

“Laced with what?” His brows went up, lines stacking up on his forehead, mouth turned down sharply.

“I don’t know. It smelled like water.”

“You were smelling colors at that point, you couldn’t tell shit.”

“What do you think was in the punch?” she asked, changing tack.

He shrugged and went back to his food. “Rohypnol. Special K, maybe. Shit, maybe Oxy. It was a depressant, whatever it was.”

He shot her an assessing look. “How’s the head?”

“Pounding.”

“Vision?”

“Normal.” She lifted her arm so the bandage showed. “Did you give me fluids?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Eat your food, take a shower. Put on real clothes .”

“Everything I had on was part of Raven’s new line. What did you do with my dress?”

“Threw it down the garbage chute.” She knew he was lying, but, again, it was fascinating to watch the clench of his jaw, the leap of tendons in the side of his throat. He almost seemed…

No, no. She wasn’t going to allow herself to think that .

“I don’t have any real clothes here,” she reasoned. “So have fun shimmying down the garbage chute.”

“You can borrow something of mine,” he said. “I’m not taking you back to your sister looking like you’re doing the walk of shame.” He glanced up at her face, his carved with disgust. “And wash your hair. It looks like shit.”

“You’re very sweet, Shepherd. Are you told that often enough? Do all your lovely ladies appreciate your chivalry?”

“Shuddup,” he said without heat, polished off the last of his breakfast like an Army recruit late for roll call, and stood to take his plate to the sink.

When his back was to her, she saw the tension in the muscles there, the bar of stiffness across his shoulders, the tight way he held his hips.

Affection swelled in her chest, deep and warm, crowding her lungs until her next breath came with a hitch.

“Frank,” she said, softly. So soft she thought he wouldn’t be able to hear it over the running tap.

But he froze in the act of rinsing his plate, not a muscle twitching.

“Thank you.”

After a beat, he nodded, and washed his dish without further acknowledgement.