“We should head inside,” she suggested. “I told Mr. Bornello we’d be here at eight. I’ll text Megan that we’re going in. She can join us when she gets here.”
“Sí, let’s do.”
Her heart sank as she eyed the two police officers guarding the warehouse entrance. The few times she’d been with Fidel around the police, he’d fallen quiet and turned pale, the veins in his temples bulging. The only thing Fidel had ever shared about his journey to America was that it had been complicated. When he was hired four years ago, he presented all the necessary paperwork. Neither Megan nor Wesley, the now-retired shelter founder, were ones to question it.
When she’d asked Fidel to come along this morning, she hadn’t thought of the extra stress it might cause him. She’d only thought of how she and Megan could use his advice in picking out the animals. Of the shelter’s five full-time employees, Fidel knew the most about dogs. Sometimes she’d swear he spoke dog. He’d be perfect for leading the rehab project, if it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was pregnant with their fourth child and on bed rest. As a result, his schedule had become unpredictable the last month and would continue that way for a while.
Kelsey held her breath as they passed the protesters. She had an odd sense of a crowd gathering for a parade, only no one seemed to be having any fun. Fortunately, she and Fidel made it down the sidewalk without more than a few halfhearted calls directed at them.
The two policemen squared off in front of the double doors as they neared. “No visitors,” the shorter one said. “Registered guests and rescue workers only.” His tone was blunt but not rude. The middle button of his light-blue uniform shirt had come undone, exposing an unsightly bit of flesh. Kelsey figured it best not to point that out.
“We’re expected,” she said as Fidel gritted his teeth. “I am anyway, and I asked Fidel to come with me. Our supervisor is meeting us here. We work at the High Grove Animal Shelter. We’ve volunteered to take some of the dogs once they’re cleared to leave. My name is Kelsey Sutton.”
The taller one lifted a clipboard from a chair. He scanned it, then glanced her way. “I’ll need some ID.”
As Kelsey fished through her purse, a loud, red classic Mustang pulled into the lot and parked. She wondered if it was another protester, and if so, why the driver hadn’t parked off to the side with the others. The driver, a guy, popped out and headed purposefully down the sidewalk toward her. He was around her age and incredibly fit, precision-toned almost.
It had to be instinctive, the way her insides melted, because anyone that fit almost certainly couldn’t be her type. His level of fitness spoke of high-maintenance diets and protein powder and lots of time in front of the mirror. She’d seen too much growing up with two older, self-absorbed weight-lifting brothers to believe otherwise.
Sliding her license from her wallet, she handed it to the taller cop with the clipboard.
He took his time studying it, looked pointedly at her, and frowned. “I’d put you at five nine or ten, not five eight.”
Kelsey felt the heat flame up her neck as the driver of the Mustang stopped right behind them. Dear God, don’t let him mention my weight. “Five nine,” she managed, “when I’m not in these running shoes.”
“You’ll want to update that next time you’re renewing your license.”
She nodded but stayed as quiet as Fidel. They were offering to rehab confiscated dogs. Why did she feel like she was a crime suspect all of a sudden?
The tall one pulled out a radio to make contact with someone inside the warehouse. “I have a Kelsey Sutton and acquaintance from the High Grove Animal Shelter in Webster here to see Rob. She’s on the list for an eight o’clock arrival.” After a bit more of an exchange, the officer nodded at her. “Just a minute. He’s on his way.”
The officers shifted their attention to the man standing behind her. “Are you expected, sir?” the short one asked.
Sir?
Unable to resist, Kelsey stole a glance over her shoulder. To her dismay, he met her gaze full on. He was in jeans and a dark-gray T-shirt, but something about his demeanor radiated military or police. He had olive skin, short brown hair, and chestnut-brown eyes. And he was so fit.
He flicked his gaze to the officers, most likely forgetting her existence on the spot. He slipped an ID from his wallet. “Kurt Crawford. Military dog handler, marines most recently. Army before that. I’m here to see Rob as well.”
“Of course,” the tall one said, not even giving the clipboard a glance. “He’ll be right out.”
Chapter 3
Kurt’s skin was crawling, and the tightness in his jaw had migrated to his temples. His shoulders and spine tensed as he scanned the parameters of the long, open warehouse like he was on patrol. The rear of the building was blocked off by accordion-style dividers. It bothered him that he couldn’t see past them.
It was the smell setting him on edge, he finally realized. Not the obvious smell—the smell of hot, unbathed dog multiplied by 150. That smacked you in the face when you stepped through the doors. Unnerving him was the underlying scent of fear radiating from the expansive rows of crates that were dwarfed by the thirty-foot ceiling and five-thousand-square-foot floor.
Dogs didn’t have sweat glands, so it wasn’t as if the smell was coming out of their pores. But he’d been in the service long enough to know fear when he smelled it—his own, another human’s, a dog’s. Metallic and salty—like blood, only subtler.
The gushy blond accompanying him on the tour wasn’t setting him at ease either, as she squatted down and talked to every crated dog. The
