“Believe me. I know.”
She laughed at my ominous tone.
“As long as you do it in your office where no one can see, have at it.” She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk. “Why do you think I stashed chocolate in here?”
“I think I need some. Maybe the whole bag.”
She pulled something out of a crinkly plastic bag. I reached forward, and she set two foil-covered pieces of chocolate in my outstretched palm. I arched a wry brow but didn’t argue. As I unwrapped one, she selected another for herself, and for a moment we both ate our chocolate in peace.
The burst of rich, sugary sweetness had me sighing. I eyed the second one and unwrapped that too.
Muriel finished first, balling up the foil and tossing it into the garbage underneath the desk. “I want to remove theinterimoff your title as much as you do, Remi. And if you can manage this situation well—use it as a tool to generate something positive out of an unfortunate situation—I think we’ll do exactly that.”
I wanted theinterimgone too. Removing it came with more stable hours and even better pay, which I desperately needed.
“Has the shelter ever had court-mandated community service volunteers before?”
“Nope. But we’ll treat it exactly as we do any of our other nonpaid employees. Work with him on his schedule. If he’s willing to come in for three to four hours at a time, it won’t take terribly long to get through his community service.”
“So I need the patience of a saint and can’t step a toe out of line with Mr. Football.”
She grinned. “Easy enough, right?” I gave her a look, and as she laughed, I stood to leave the office. Muriel held up her hand and then tossed me another piece of chocolate. “Just in case.”
Chocolate had the powerful ability to grant delusions.
With chocolate, I was calm and centered again. I didn’t need a nap and a double-shampoo shower. With chocolate, I wasn’t on the edge of snapping whenever I saw the chiseled jaw and inked biceps.
Unfortunately for Archer, every time I looked at him, I’d be reminded of my very worst impulses, swinging wildly between both ends of the spectrum.
The Remi who still craved wild affection and unbridled lust—who wanted to be wanted, even if it didn’t make sense ... She needed to take several fucking seats.
And the Remi who occasionally had violent outbursts at the slightest sign of disrespect to either me or my loved ones ... She needed anger management.
Unfortunately, my chocolate was gone by the time I turned the corner into the lobby, and the object of my ire was standing by the front desk, studying the pictures on the walls—a record of successful adoptions over the last year. We were closer to the side of the building with the kennels now, and the sharp barks of our current guests punctuated the thick silence as I stared at Archer.
He wastotallygoing to lurk. It wasn’t like he could help it. Even standing there like he was, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers—muscles flexing every which way—Archer filled the space like no one I’d ever seen before. Maybe it was always like that for guys like him. Larger than life and intimidating just by existing.
But even with all that, he was just a guy who’d fucked up and was now paying the price. I thought about my son’s face when I’d tossed that jersey into the garbage. Mistakes always came with consequences, didn’t they? We might not see the dominoes topple right away, but they always did.
“You were supposed to wait outside.”
“I’m not great at being told what to do,” he said easily, eyes still on the wall. “What’s the easiest job you can give me for you to sign off on these hours? Take some pictures with some dogs? Cuddle a puppy or something?”
“Easy,” I mused. “That’s what you want out of this?”
He squared his shoulders in my direction. “Yes. And after this, I’m guessing you want me out of your hair just as badly.”
“I’m quite used to not getting what I want.”
Archer gave me a speaking glance at that unfortunate admission, because between the two of us, that could mean a whole lot of things.
“Come on,” I told him. “I’ll show you around.”
We walked through the kennels first, and I pulled bits of hot dog out of the bag in my pocket to feed some of the pups. The room was big, and loud, so we didn’t do much talking. When I stopped to feed some treats to Scout—a sweet, sad-eyed hound dog missing his back right leg—Archer paused to read the sign affixed to his kennel’s fencing.
He kept moving without asking a single question.
The sign outside each kennel described the dog’s temperament and what we knew of their story. How long they’d been with us. Scout was our longest resident: He’d been with us for more than a year. The missing leg and the shy personality didn’t do him any favors when there were almost always friendlier, more energetic options. There were twelve kennels on each side of the long room, twenty-four in total, and all but one was filled. Each dog had a bed elevated off the concrete floor, food and water bowls attached to the cinder block walls, a soft blanket, and a stuffed animal or toy for them to play with.