Bandit was sitting in the corner, watching as the embarrassment threatened to swallow me whole.
It was truly amazing that until Archer Evans had walked through these doors, I hadn’t realized just how badly my trust in my own instincts were broken. That twisty knot of embarrassment was impossible to untangle when you were unsure of where you stood with someone.
I wanted him—that much was undeniable. Wanted him enough that the idea I’d been any sort of joke to him and his friends was a frigid slap of reality that stung to my bones. Those were trust issues tied to far more than him, not that he could’ve known it.
I shouldn’t want him, because despite what I knew now, I still wasn’t sure I could trust him.
I’d lied to myself so thoroughly since the night we met. That was the scariest part of the lies you told yourself: If you said them long enough, even knowing they weren’t true, eventually you’d believe them.
I don’t want Archer Evans. I’d repeat it over and over and over until my belief was unshakable. The words needed to be inked not just on my brain, but on my heart. The kind of ink that would never wash away and couldn’t fade with time and circumstance. Wanting him would gain me nothing but heartbreak.
I lightly tapped the back of my head against the hard, cold blocks behind me.
A concussion might help all this sink in, come to think of it.
Bandit tilted his head.
I stopped the possible head injury and breathed out a small laugh. “Sorry, bud. Not trying to freak you out. But if you’d seen me out there, you’d try to erase the memories too.”
The door into the kennel room opened and closed.
Ness was around somewhere, as were a few volunteers, so I stayed where I was and tossed Bandit a few more of the treats I’d snagged from the supply closet.
He inched forward, snuffling them off the ground. With a lick of his chops, he looked at me expectantly. When I slowly reached my hand forward, he backed up again.
“All right,” I said gently. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
The dog’s attention wasn’t on me anymore, though. It was on the entrance to his kennel, where a giant lurking presence made my stomach flip inside out.
I slammed my eyes shut.
“Remi, can I talk to you?”
“No.”
“Remi.”
What made it worse was the tone of his voice. It wasn’t gruff or demanding. As deep as normal, but there was something steady in it that made me want to plug my ears. I didn’t want steady, deep voices that would make me feel better about ... anything. Even worse if they made me feel better about everything.
The moment I had the thought, my eyes caught on the tip of Bandit’s tail.
The tiny wagging motion at the mere sight of Archer. My mouth fell open.
“Archer, slowly open the door and come in here,” I told him, keeping my focus on the dog. “Please,” I added as an afterthought.
As instructed, Archer lifted the latch and soundlessly walked into the kennel. When he caught sight of Bandit’s hidden tail wag, his movements slowed.
“That’s for me?” he asked, clearly incredulous.
“It is. Usually it’s just the presence of processed meat that gets him going.”
“Thanks,” Archer answered dryly.
“Anytime.”
See ... this was better. An even playing field, where I had solid footing in our interactions. The moment we stepped outside the walls of the shelter, everything went topsy-turvy, which was the surest sign of all that whatever this was, it needed to stop.
When Archer mimicked my seated position—back against the wall and legs stretched out—the free space in the kennel shrank. In an effort to avoid accidental leg brushing (I’d just shaved and all, but still ... no one needed calf-on-calf action if it could be helped), I tucked my legs up against my chest.