I took a step closer, wondering how far I might have to push her before she slapped the shit out of me. “How you gonna test that out, boss? You gonna let me take you out to dinner in Pip’s old kennel?”
The bright flash of shock on her face was worth it, because she took a step closer too. My stomach tightened at the way she had to tilt her chin to look at me, even though she was taller than average. “Mop the floors and quit trying to piss me off, Evans. It won’t work.”
“Won’t it?”
Remi stepped back, her face smoothing out. “No. Make sure to swap out the dirty water with clean after every kennel. The sink is back and to the right. Cleaner is in the cupboard above.”
I gave her a crisp salute. “Whatever you say, boss.”
She hated that nickname, her eyes gleaming every time I said it.
“And when you’re done with this—”
“Let me guess—I can clean up the yard.”
She smiled sweetly. “No. Today you get to clean litter boxes. Clio had diarrhea last night, so you’re in for a real treat.”
“That sounds delightful,” I said smoothly. “I can’t wait.”
The glare I got in return was fierce, color slipping into her cheeks—a delicious pink that covered her chest too—and I was damn near ready to knock the mop out of her hands and see what would happen if I tried to kiss her.
She’d probably knee me in the balls, and I’d be half in love with her.
When she whirled around and left me alone with the mop, I smirked, wondering what it said about me that I was almost hard from her trying to make my life a living hell.
By day four, I was certain that I needed some emergency sessions with a shrink, because I’d developed an unhealthy obsession with pissing off Remi Sinclair. Maybe this was something a professional would pinpoint back to my childhood. I didn’t get enough affection as a baby. Having had no real mother figure caused me to seek out attention—positive or negative—from wherever I could get it.
And Remi seemed to know that.
As I mopped the aisle again, Scout leaned up against the cinder block wall, watching me work with his big dark eyes.
“She’s probably really nice to you, isn’t she?”
He yawned, slowly sliding down into a lying position on the floor.
The back wall of the kennel room was one long window that stretched the entire length of the space. Like one of those observation windows where people used to go see their babies in the nursery after they were born. With that clear glass separating me from the offices and meeting rooms, it was easy to watch how often Remi was back and forth throughout the morning.
She’d asked that I come in Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.
All my shifts fell in the late morning, averaging three hours every time I was there. Mainly because the crappy jobs only took about that long, and God forbid she let me cuddle a puppy or something, because that might make my time pleasant.
Once the mopping was done, I walked to her office and paused outside the door when I heard her talking on the phone.
“Baby, I already told you, you cannot skip practice because you’re tired.”
I tucked my hands in my pockets, thinking about what her friend had said about Remi’s son. Throwing my jersey away, as a young fan, was a big fucking deal. One I hadn’t anticipated in the split-second decision that seemed to be bleeding into every aspect of my life.
“Mom,” he groaned. “Please. We only have one game left, and I’m on the bench most of the time.”
I tucked my chin into my chest and peered just around the edge of the doorframe. Her eyes were closed, exhaustion stamped all over her face. Her head was in her hands—and you’re fucking right, I’d already checked for a wedding ring, and the fourth finger on her left hand was bare. No tan lines, no indents, nothing.
“Gavin,” she sighed. “We talked about the responsibility of signing up for a team, right? You can’t just pick and choose when you show upfor the things that matter. We always have to show up for the people who depend on us. That’s your teammates and your coaches.”
“I know. But what if I don’t even play?”
Remi adjusted the edge of a picture frame on her desk. The kid in the picture—ten or maybe eleven—had a mop of strawberry-blond hair and dimples. “Then I will be the proudest mom in the world knowing you’re ready to go whenever they need you. The people on the bench are important too. You can cheer on your teammates, encourage them when things are hard.”
He groaned, and the sound of it lifted the edges of her lips in a smile. It didn’t lift mine, though.