Grace's POV
I didn't bother cleaning up the broken coffee mug.
I just stared through the window as Mr. BMW stepped out of his car, all six-feet-something of polished perfection. Designer suit that probably cost more than my monthly food budget. Dark hair styled like he'd just walked off a magazine cover. And that black eye—purple and yellow, healing but still visible.
He looked exactly like Marcus.
My hands clenched into fists.
Rich. Entitled. Probably never worked a real day in his life. Here to do his court-ordered time before running back to whatever penthouse he came from.
I marched outside before I could talk myself out of confronting him.
Dr. Ashford? He didn't smile. Didn't extend his hand. Just stood there like he was waiting for a root canal.
You're the community service worker?
Ethan Kane. His voice was flat, cold. I'm here for my required hours.
Not I'm here to help. Not nice to meet you. Just the bare minimum.
Perfect.
You wore a suit. I crossed my arms. To work at an animal sanctuary.
I have other clothes in my car.
Most people dress appropriately before they arrive.
Most people don't punch their boss at work. His gray eyes met mine, challenging. But here we are.
The anger in his voice surprised me. Not embarrassed. Not apologetic. Just angry.
Well, two could play that game.
Follow me, I said, turning toward the kennels. I'll show you where you'll be working.
I led him past the barn, past the outdoor enclosures, straight to the dog kennels. Twenty kennels. Nineteen occupied. All needing to be cleaned.
Your job is simple, I said, stopping at the first kennel. Clean out the old bedding. Hose down the floors. Put in fresh blankets. Refill water bowls. Do all twenty kennels before your shift ends.
Ethan looked at the kennels. At the mud. At the work ahead. His jaw tightened, but he didn't complain.
Supplies? he asked.
Shed behind the barn. Gloves, garbage bags, hose, everything you need.
Fine.
That was it. No argument. No excuses. Just fine.
I waited for the complaints. The this isn't what I signed up for speech I'd heard from every other worker.
Nothing.
Your shift is six hours, I added. You get a thirty-minute lunch break. Don't be late tomorrow.
I won't. He turned toward his car. I'll change and get started.
I watched him walk away, confused and annoyed. He was supposed to argue. Supposed to show me exactly who he was—another rich guy who thought he was too good for real work.
But he just... accepted it.
Five minutes later, he emerged in jeans and a plain t-shirt, carrying work gloves. He walked straight to the shed, grabbed supplies, and started working.
In complete silence.
I went back to the clinic, telling myself I had better things to do than babysit Mr. Wall Street. Honey needed monitoring. The other animals needed care. And I had a furnace to somehow afford.
But I kept looking out the window.
Every time I checked, Ethan was working. Moving bedding. Hosing down floors. Careful and methodical, like he actually cared about doing it right.
An hour passed. Then two. He didn't stop. Didn't check his phone. Didn't complain.
He's still going, Jenny said, appearing beside me at the window.
He'll quit by lunch, I muttered. They always do.
But lunch came and went. Ethan ate a sandwich sitting on the ground outside the kennels, then went right back to work.
By noon, I was beyond confused. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.
I'm checking his work, I announced, heading outside.
Jenny called after me. Grace, maybe give him a
I was already gone.
The first kennel I checked was spotless. Clean floor. Fresh blankets folded neatly. Full water bowl.
The second kennel, perfect.
The third, same.
Every single one was better than I'd expected. Better than I could have done myself with how exhausted I was.
I found Ethan at the last kennel, finishing up. My rescue dog Biscuit—the anxious terrier who barked at everyone, was out of his kennel.
Sitting next to Ethan.
Licking his face.
I froze.
Biscuit didn't trust anyone. He'd been abused before I rescued him, spent weeks hiding from people. He only tolerated me because I fed him.
But there he was, tail wagging, completely relaxed with this stranger.
Hey, buddy, Ethan said softly, scratching behind Biscuit's ears. You're a good boy, aren't you?
Biscuit's whole body wiggled with joy.
My throat tightened. Animals knew. They could sense when someone was dangerous, when someone was fake.
And Biscuit trusted this man completely.
Your shift ended twenty minutes ago, I said, my voice rougher than intended.
Ethan looked up, and for a second, just a second, I saw something other than cold distance in his eyes. Something gentle.
Then it was gone.
He stood, brushing dirt off his jeans. The barn door is broken. I'll fix it tomorrow.
I didn't ask you to
I know. He walked past me toward his car, Biscuit trotting behind him until I called the dog back.
Wait, I called out. Why would you fix something that's not your job?
Ethan stopped, his back to me. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Then, quietly: Because it needs fixing.
He got in his car and drove away.
I stood there in the snow, completely baffled.
Community service workers didn't do extra work. They didn't research animals' needs or spend lunch breaks with rescue dogs. They definitely didn't offer to fix broken barn doors.
So who was Ethan Kane?
And why did my rescue dog, who hated everyone, trust him more than he trusted me?
Jenny appeared at my elbow. Told you he was different.
Different doesn't mean good, I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
Grace, he just worked six hours cleaning kennels without complaining once. He was gentle with the dogs. And Biscuit practically worshipped him.
So?
So maybe not every guy in an expensive car is Marcus.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to hold onto my anger, my suspicion, my carefully built walls.
But something was nagging at me.
As I walked back toward the cottage, I noticed something I'd missed before. Ethan's BMW—the one that screamed money—had a crack in the windshield. The back bumper was dented. And through the window, I could see blankets piled in the backseat.
Like someone had been sleeping in their car.
My stomach dropped.
What if Jenny was right? What if Ethan Kane wasn't another Marcus?
What if he was something far more dangerous—someone who could actually make me want to trust again?