“My father was an abusive alcoholic, so I didn’t really have an example.”

Cory stares me in the eyes when he says, “Then don’t you think we should break the cycle? Do you want to be like your father, or do you want to rise above him, be better, be the man Kinsley deserves?”

Hell . . .

“She’s done with me.”

“She’s done with the man you are now,” Jason says. “She’s not done with the man she fell in love with. Trust me on this. When Dottie broke my heart, lied to me, no matter how hard I tried, I still loved her. I couldn’t put that behind me. You need to work at it.”

Annoyed, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “Okay, if you two think you’re so smart, how do you think I go about doing it?”

“Sobering up would be job number one,” Cory says.

“Not fighting would be job number two,” Jason says, holding up his fingers.

“And coming up with a plan would be job number three,” Lincoln says, coming up behind me, “and I have just the idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

KINSLEY

One Week Later

“Do you ever smile?” I ask Herman, as he stares up at me while I eat my breakfast. “I know, I know . . . you miss him.”

I miss him, too.

Even though I don’t want to admit it, I do miss him. But that’s bound to happen. He was my everything, my person, and to cut him out of my life so suddenly, so completely . . . nothing alleviates that unabating pain. I just wish Herman wasn’t extra mopey about it. Makes things worse.

“I guess not,” I answer for myself and then turn back to my computer, where I’ve been working on my new campaign with the city of Chicago, to try to bring more awareness to the shelter, by using pictures of our animals on flags for light poles all around the city parks, especially the animal-friendly ones.

The door to the shelter rings and I glance up from my desk for a second, only for my heart to leap into my throat.

Maddox.

Here.

Oh God.

Freshly shaven, dressed in black from head to toe, and wearing a black baseball cap.

And he looks good.

Really freaking good.

Herman spots him right away and quickly—as quickly as Herman moves—trots over to him and buries his head into Maddox’s arms.

Traitor.

“Hey old man. How are you?”

I study Maddox, looking for any signs of being under the influence, but when he looks up at me, eyes clear, I know he hasn’t been drinking.

Maddox stands and sticks his hands in his pockets as Herman stays close to him, looking utterly pathetic. I see how it is.

“Hey Kinny,” he says, looking shy and adorable, and for a second, I forget why I’m not speaking to him.

“What are you doing here?”

He lifts his hat up and pushes his hand through his hair before placing his hat back on his head. “I came to volunteer.”

“What?”

“Ah, there you are,” Marcy says, coming up behind me. “I’m glad you were able to make it in today, Maddox. If you come this way, I’ll show you where we need you.”

“Sure thing.” He gives me a side smile and then takes off, Herman following closely behind him.

What the . . .

I turn to see Maddox’s retreating back, his jeans snug, his shoulder blades tenting the back of his shirt. My heart aches from the sight, pounding faster than before from being in the same building as him, but my brain quickly reminds me of what he did, what he said.

Stuck in place, I watch Marcy take him to cat row, where she hands him a pooper scooper and a bag. He’s on sifting duty. After a few instructions, he gives her a devilish smile and then she makes her way back to her office, ignoring my staring.

Does she really think she’s getting back to work without an explanation?

Hell no.

I slip into her office and shut the door behind me.

“What the hell is going on?”

Marcy acts casual, moving her mouse around on her desk. “What are you referring to?”

“Marcy,” I snap, causing her to look at me. “You know exactly what I’m referring to. Why is Maddox here?”

“Oh, that.” She smiles and goes back to her computer. “He contacted me a few days ago. Said he wants to put in some time at the shelter, to help out.”

Looking behind my back to make sure he’s not standing at the door, looking at us through the glass window, I whisper, “You know he’s doing this to get close to me, right?”

“Oh yes, I know.” She types away at her computer.

“And you’re . . . just going to let him do that?”

“Yup.”

“Marcy.” I stomp my foot. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

She stops typing and folds her hands in front of her. “And I am on your side. But I also know a good letter when I read one, and his email to me was both heartfelt and heartbreaking. Someone needs to give this boy a second chance. If you won’t, I will.”

“He . . . uh, he wrote you an email?”

“Yes, and no, you can’t read it.”

“I wasn’t going to ask to read it,” I say in a defensive tone, even though I am DYING to read it.

“Mm hmm,” Marcy says, giving me a smooth once-over. She knows me too well already. “Now if you don’t mind, I have some work to get done.”

“Yeah, sure, so do I.” I reach for her office door. “Just so I’m aware who’s in and out of the shelter, how often does he plan on volunteering? If this like a one-time thing or—”

“As often as his schedule will allow. Now please, let me get back to my work.” The corner of her lips tilt up as I leave her office. I have a feeling the distance I’ve been trying to keep has just been diminished.

Two Days Later

“Would you be able to get me another tub of litter?” I ask Deborah, one of our long-time volunteers.

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.” I wipe my nose with my forearm, keeping my hands as far away from my face as possible. My main job at the shelter is community outreach and finding homes for these precious animals, but I also love helping out in the kennels as well, getting my hands dirty, so to speak. And when we’re short on volunteers for the day, it doesn’t hurt that I know how to clean the kennels properly, feed the animals their medications—for those who have them—and spend some quality love time with them.

On slower volunteer days, I’ll take my laptop with me from kennel to kennel and simply sit with them so they have some human contact.

“Here you go,” says a deep, familiar voice.

I quickly turn to see Maddox standing over me, tub of litter in hand, looking handsome as ever in his signature black again.

“I can pour it for you.”

“Oh, um, no, that’s okay. I can . . . um, I can do it. You can set the litter down.”

“Okay.” He sets the tub down and stuffs his hands in his pockets, but doesn’t move.

Please leave. “Uh, you can go back to what you were doing.”

When did he even get here?

He thumbs toward the offices and says, “Marcy needed Deborah’s help, so she asked me to switch and come help you.”

Sure, Marcy needed Deborah’s help. I don’t believe that for a second.

“Well, I got this under control, so no need to—”

“I’ll start on the next one.” He goes to the travel carriers, grabs one, and gently opens the kennel to Miss Fennel’s dwellings, a ten-year-old tabby who recently lost her owner due to old age. “Come here, pretty girl,” he coos, and hell, just hearing him talk sweetly to a cat puts a little crack in the wall I’ve erected around my heart. “I’m going to change everything out for you, make it nice and fresh in here.”

Okay, he doesn’t need to talk to the cat. That’s just making everything worse.

Trying to focus on what I’m doing and not having him here, in person, a few feet away, I tear open the cat litter and refill the litter box, the dust flying up toward my face. I hold my breath and when there’s enough in the pan, I step away and set the tub down, letting the air clear out.

Being this close to Maddox, I half expect him to try to strike up a conversation, say something, anything, but when I look over at him, he’s busy cleaning out the kennel, paying extra attention to detail and wiping down everything.

“Almost done, sweet girl. I’m just going to change out your litter and get you a fresh blanket.”

If Marcy is trying to break down my defenses, she’s doing one hell of a job.

“Sorry to bother you, but where are the fresh blankets?” Maddox asks.

When I look up at him, connect with the deep blue of his eyes, I nearly start crying. There’s so much depth in those eyes, so much pain, so much hurt, so much need to do the right thing. Ever since I’ve known Maddox, he’s always straddled the line of falling down the path of his father, or rising above and being the person I know he can be—a man with a great heart, a joking soul, and an unfaltering passion for the things and people he truly loves.

I see that man, right now, staring down at me . . . asking me where the clean blankets are.

Blinking away tears, I say, “Uh, the red cabinet over there, top shelf.”