How About No (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 3)

I winced and bent over to pluck the paper out of the trash can, and then put the paper back on top of the other papers that I’d practically ruined.

Once done with that, I took a seat at the kitchen island and tried to figure out what I should do next.

I wanted to stay where I was. I wanted to go with him to the hospital. I wanted to have him move back in with me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and bury my face into his chest. I wanted to remember what it felt like to wake up beside him.

I wanted him back.

Which was comical since I was the one who made him leave.

The metal latch on the cage rattled, and my head snapped up just in time to see Wade opening the smaller of the two doors. It was designed to where you could open up a side hatch and deposit food or possibly a chew toy for the dog to play with without actually opening the entire cage and risk the dog getting out.

It was a good setup, and I was glad that I’d made the hefty purchase.

I watched, heart in my throat, as Wade’s hand slowly eased inside the cage.

The dog didn’t growl. Didn’t move a single inch.

Capo did flinch when Wade’s hand came near his big body, but otherwise he showed no outward appearance that he cared that Wade’s hand was nearly touching him.

Wade didn’t make the final move, though.

He waited, hand rock steady, inches away from him.

Finally, after what felt like fifteen minutes but was more likely three or four, Capo shifted until his back was pressing against Wade’s hand.

I breathed in deeply as tears came to my eyes.

The dog wasn’t a lost cause.

I knew it.Chapter 12Any pencil can be a number two pencil if you eat it.

-Wade to Landry

Wade

Running late, I parked my bike in the hospital parking lot and got off, hurrying as fast as my broken body could move without actually making agony jolt through me with every step.

I hadn’t intended to spend the afternoon trying to get a dog to like me, but something in Capo had sparked a protective instinct in me. I also hated seeing my wife cry.

Always had.

Which led me to now, five minutes late for an appointment that was necessary to me hopefully keeping my leg.

Papers in hand, I walked onto the floor and looked for the nurses’ station, finding it in the very center of the huge floor.

My eyes scanned the nurses that were all giving me their full attention.

“I’m looking for Tiffy,” I rumbled.

A woman stood up and started toward me, her face the only one in the entire bunch that looked disinterested in me.

I was used to women’s eyes being on me. One, because I was a police officer and being a police officer usually drew peoples’ attention to me. Two, because I had my dad’s genes. Tall, dark, and handsome—or so I’d been told.

Tiffy was a cute little thing. She was a short, slightly built woman with features that clearly hinted at Japanese ancestry.

“You are Wade?” she asked in a no-nonsense voice.

I nodded once. “That’s me.”

“You’re late,” she said.

I nodded. “I had a problem I had to deal with. I apologize.”

Tiffy—who didn’t look much like a Tiffy—narrowed her eyes. “Follow me. Your room is at the back of the floor.”

I did and grinned when I realized she wasn’t lying. The room really was in the back—and I meant way back.

It was also about three-quarters of the way through a remodeling process and likely wasn’t supposed to have any patients in it.

“I doubt that we’ll come check on you much once we get this started. The doctor said that you weren’t in need of our attention, and honestly, I can’t spare the manpower. We didn’t have room for another patient, and you in this room that isn’t even finished being remodeled goes to show that.” She showed me to the bed. “I don’t need you to change out of your clothes. I see that you’re in the sleep pants that the doctor recommended. Good. All I’ll need is your shirt off.”

I tossed my phone, wallet, and keys onto the bedside table and then kicked off my tennis shoes.

Once those were off, I took my shirt off and turned to sit on the bed.

Tiffy—whose nametag read Greta—a name that still didn’t fit her—walked in front of me and examined my arms.

“Left or right?” she questioned.

Her abrupt manner had me almost smiling.

I shrugged. “Left, I guess. I’m right-handed.”

She moved to my left hand and examined it. “Don’t even need a tourniquet.”

My lip twitched. “No, probably not.”

She put one on anyway and started an IV within seconds.

Moments after that, she directed me onto the bed. “I hope that your phone works, or that you’re tired. The television in here doesn’t work. We have two of these bags to run through you tonight. When this one is empty, I’ll come hang the other bag. It should be about eight hours of flow. Any questions?”