"Pike was the first one to read the application and immediately started calling me Nasa. From then on, that became my name.”
Natural as breathing, Dillon briefly wrapped her free hand around Nasa's wrist.
“I'm sorry I won't ever get to meet him.”
Nasa twisted his palm to lace his fingers between hers in a clasp that felt far more intimate, his words wrapped in a thick blanket of unashamed emotion. “He would have liked you.”
Dillon didn't know what to say in response or if she should say anything at all, so she simply squeezed his wrist, and let go. When they reached the end of the hall, Nasa punched in another passcode to open the door that led to the main foyer.
The sweep of Nasa's thumb up and down the side of her wrist felt so nice, it almost distracted her from the sour look on Cher's face.
In the lovely sage green foyer—with its copper counter tops, dark wood floors, dove gray couches, and elegant black pots filled with frothy ferns—Cher stood out like a sore thumb.
The outfit Cher had on was somethin' else. Skintight red capris with artful tears dangerously close to her vagina and a leopard print top that left her belly—from the waistband of her pants to just beneath her ribcage—bare.
The matching leopard print heels were tall enough to boost Cher up to Dillon's natural six-foot height, her long brown hair curled in thick, silky waves.
Dillon had nothing against strippers, but between her outfit and the incredible amount of makeup on her face, Cher looked like one.
She had beautiful blue eyes, a lovely heart-shaped face, and lips like Marilyn Monroe, which were currently painted the same shade of red as her BMW.
If she wasn't such a nasty human being, Cher would have been one of the most gorgeous women Dillon had ever seen.
Currently, those big eyes of hers were narrowed with distaste and no small amount of annoyance, focused on where Dillon held Nasa's hand.
“Miss DeLoughrey, your service dog is not on a leash,” Cher announced imperiously, as though Elka were doing zoomies in the pristine lobby instead of standing calmly by Dillon's hip.
“Would you like to continue working here, Cher?” Nasa asked shortly, still stroking his thumb up and down Dillon's wrist.
Cher lifted her chin and gave a little toss of her hair. “Are you threatening me because I'm enforcing the policy of this clinic?”
Curious to see how this was going to go down, Dillon kept quiet. Nasa did that guy thing where he braced his feet shoulder width apart, tucked his free hand in his front pocket, shoulders back, totally nonchalant while assuming the bored expression of an arrogant asshole.
“Pretty sure I was just asking you a question, but now that you mention it, I sure would love to see where it says service dogs have to be leashed in the policy handbook.
"I had no idea there was a policy about animals, aside from the rule that clearly states no donkeys or bestiality of any kind is allowed on the premises.”
Cher opened her mouth to no doubt say something sassy, but instead, the voice of an incubus echoed through the entry way and slithered across Dillon's skin like liquid velvet.
“There is no policy regarding service animals, nor a handbook as you well know, Nasa.”
The man who stepped from the shadows was immaculately dressed, oozing sensuality, command, and calm.
His black hair was a bit on the long side, curling gently around his ears, framing a face worthy of immortality via marble.
His eyes were as green as emeralds, cool and sharp, so thickly lashed it appeared he had eyeliner on. He could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty; his face was smooth with youth, he had an air of ice-cold elegance around him, and the cultured flair to his words made him seem wise beyond his years.
He wore a dark charcoal colored suit with a crisp white shirt beneath and a steel-colored tie knotted smartly around his strong throat.
His eyes seemed to take in everything in a quick flash, and he continued to speak, making Dillon's heart race in her chest.
“That's two lies you've told in the space of so many days, Cher, and should a third pass your lips, you will be immediately fired, as per the terms of your contract. Am I understood?”
It was a testament to the level of her embarrassment, or perhaps her anger, because despite the thick layer of makeup on her face, Cher's cheeks were as red as her pants.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Miss DeLourghey, I'm Dr. Thompson, and I sincerely apologize that you were so rudely dismissed yesterday.
"So you are aware, there is and has been for some time, a notation in your file that clearly states you are to be given an appointment no matter how long it's been since your last session.”
Feeling a bit starstruck by the power Dr. Thompson could wield in a conversational tone, all Dillon could say was, “Thank you.”
Dr. Thompson gave a regal dip of his head. “Of course. Dr. White is finishing up with a patient. Please come through to the waiting room.
"Your service dog is more than welcome here, with or without a leash. Clearly, she is an extremely well-trained female.”
Dillon couldn't help but glance at Cher, who seemed to be staring holes into the floor with her hands clenched tight at her sides.
If someone had delivered such an intentional barb about her like that, Dillon would have been both mortified and furious.
Cher certainly looked furious, but considering the way Cher's nipples strained the skin-tight material of her shirt, the flush on her cheeks didn't appear to be caused by embarrassment.
Nasa started forward, drawing Dillon along in his wake to follow Dr. Thompson. Dillon caught Cher's gaze and the hostile look of loathing in the other woman's eyes. If looks could kill, Dillon would have been six feet under and pushing up
