Page 22 of Will Bark for Pizza (Bluebell Springs #1)

“Have they been selling ?” I whispered, finding it hard to believe.

Sure, Diana did well digitally. She’d sold more e-books than I could ever count.

But being an indie author, my books rarely made it into bookstores, even independently owned ones.

The few that carried them were Lila’s doing.

And she had to lay the charm on thick to convince bookstores to carry my books when the author was adamantly opposed to doing in-person events .

The rattle of the doorknob snapped my attention to the front. I quickly re-shelved the book, and led Husker to the front to meet Dad and the appraiser.

“Kira, how’d you get in?” Dad asked, his expression one of genuine surprise.

“My key.”

“Did I—” He lifted his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Thought I forgot, but guess you got it. Anyway, this is Phil Clausen. He’s here to do the appraisal.”

I shook hands with the man a few years my dad’s senior.

Whereas Dad was in his usual work pants and blue shirt with his name stitched into the pocket—he likely came straight from the hardware store—Phil wore dark-wash jeans and a gray polo.

He held a heavy-duty clipboard against his chest, looking much too professional for my liking.

It’s not his fault . The voice in my head sounded a lot more like Mom’s than my own.

“This is a great location,” Phil said, wearing a smile that felt both professional and genuine. “Lots of possibilities here.”

I forced a smile in return, but my stomach was tying in knots at what this all meant. The iced coffee no longer sat well—my fault for avoiding breakfast once again to avoid Beckett. Probably a good thing, considering the sudden and violent flip my stomach just managed to complete.

“You okay?” Dad asked.

“I’ll be right back.” Husker trotted alongside me as I beelined for the restroom in the back. I didn’t lose the coffee, thankfully, but I was sweating as though I were trapped in a sauna, despite the chill in the bookstore.

My vision blurred. I braced my back against the cool tile wall opposite the door and slunk to the floor.

Husker placed his head in my lap, and I focused on stroking his head, his soft fur grazing my fingertips—the only sensation grounding me to reality.

This wasn’t my first panic attack. I experienced them when I was faced with the sight of my own blood. And during my Dark Ages, I had panic attacks for a variety of other reasons that had nothing to do with blood. But the familiar territory was never pleasant.

“Breathe, Kira.” I whispered the command.

My temperature increased to inferno levels. Sweat poured from me profusely. I wanted my sweatshirt off, but I couldn’t muster the strength. The spinning room was fading to black.

“Kira, are you all right?”

“Here come the hallucinations,” I murmured, working harder to breathe, and finding little to no relief. Because Beckett Campbell was definitely not on the other side of the door. Maybe Dad, but not the military veteran I’d been hiding from, and shamelessly fantasizing about.

“Kira?” Husker popped to his feet and stared at the crack between the floor and the bottom of the door. Huh . Maybe I wasn’t imagining it.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

My shirt was soaked beneath my sweatshirt. I didn’t have the stamina left to pull off the top layer. I was quickly losing consciousness. I let out a laugh that turned into a sob.

“Not really.”

“Can I come in?”

“Why not.”

The room went dark.

My head rolled back, landing on a very firm ledge. Did this bathroom have ledges? Why was this one curved just right to support my head? It was hard, but not like tile. What was this magical surface? And why did it smell like pine needles?

“Breathe, Kira.”

This warm ledge had warm breath, too. It tickled my neck.

Or maybe Husker turned the fan on. Did I teach him that trick?

I felt the weight of his head against my folded legs, his cold nose pressing against my bare knee.

The wall behind me was warm. Not quite level.

Ha . Maybe the appraiser would have something to say about the state of the wavy walls, and Dad would decide not to sell after all.

“Take a deep breath,” Beckett said again, his voice soft against my ear. Something cool pressed against my forehead and held.

The relief was instant.

“Thank the vampire gods.” My words were more of a moan than anything, but I didn’t care.

“Vampire gods?”

“The Veltori five,” I told him. “Seth, Vincent, Dameon . . .”

The damp cloth against my head turned from cool to molten lava. I groaned, unable to open my eyes to see where it fell.

“Hold on.”

Water rushed from the faucet for a few seconds, then the cloth was replaced against my forehead.

Finally, my eyes fluttered open.

Two jean-clad legs stretched out on either side of my folded thighs. Tan work boots with yellow and black laces touched the door. Husker lay between those legs, his chin resting on my crossed legs as those big brown eyes looked up at me in concern.

“You back with me?” Beckett asked. His low voice gently rumbled against the side of my head, just behind my ear. His lips brushed against my hair as he spoke.

“Um, yeah?” The first rush of embarrassment hit me. I remembered Beckett’s voice on the other side of the door, but not him coming in or propping his body behind me. I squirmed, desperate to get up, but my wobbly legs were protesting hard.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’m not in a hurry.”

Now that my body temperature was no longer a thousand degrees, his warmth was comforting.

Like the safety net I always craved when these stupid panic attacks hit.

Part of me wanted to sit right here until the day was over.

Or at least until the appraiser left. How the hell did I think I could handle being a part of the selling process?

“How are you here?” I asked, pulling away the wad of damp paper towels from my forehead and forcing myself to sit up straight, breaking the contact of his chest to my back. I ran my fingers along Husker’s head, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from the absence of Beckett’s heat.

I liked it.

Too much.

“You ready to go back out there?” Beckett asked.

I looked over my shoulder at him, which was a huge fucking mistake. Those hazel eyes from a distance were dangerous. But this close, they were deadly. I was both locked in a trance and too intimidated by the intensity of his stare.

But something didn’t sit right.

“Beckett, why are you here?”

“I’m guessing you don’t know,” he said, his expression regretful. “I’ve been trying to tell you, but we kept missing each other?—”

I bristled, and my tone turned cold. “Tell me what?”

“I’m the prospective buyer.”