“We’re mainly a dog rescue,” I explained. “Older ones, actually. We have a handful of foster homes that take in mamas and puppies when we do get them. Right now I think we have eight others split between three foster homes. It’s not that we don’t get cats or puppies or younger dogs—sometimes the need is so great that we have to take on what we can. But it’s so much harder for older dogs to find families. Muriel, the woman who founded the shelter, adopted an eight-year-old Lab when she and her husband first got married, and he’d been sitting in a shelter for two years when they took him home.” I gestured to the logo on the wall. “That’s his paw print.”
Next were the adoption rooms, where prospective families met with dogs.
“We also do temperament-testing in here—check for resource guarding and see how they might handle kids, other dogs, that sort ofthing. And when our local vet partners come in for routine exams, they can handle all of that on-site.”
I gestured to the door that led to the side yard. “You know what’s out there—or used to be,” I added icily. “It was an outdoor space we’d just added for families to play with dogs they’re considering adopting. It was less than a week old. My grandfather gave me two benches that he bought for my grandma thirty years ago. Took him months to refinish them.” I cleared my throat. “They’re destroyed too.”
Archer’s profile was stony as he stared at that door. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He took another deep breath, and without turning to face me, he spoke again.
“It was raining.”
“What?”
“It was raining,” he repeated. “The roads were wet, and I thought I saw an animal. Maybe it was that dog—”
I let out a shocked huff. “Are you trying to make excuses for getting behind the wheel and driving when you were drunk?”
“I’m just saying you don’t need to try and make me feel like shit. I already do.”
I thought about what Muriel had said. Professional. Kind. Don’t step a toe out of line with Mr. Football.
So instead of telling him that he needed his head dislodged from his ass, I was glad my son tossed his jersey,andI wanted to slap the perfect teeth out of his face, I took a deep breath and let the bad juju out on the exhale.
“You want an easy job while you’re here?” I asked.
“Preferably.”
“Good. Then let me introduce you to the poop shovel. Easy enough to shovel dog shit for fifty hours, isn’t it?”
Chapter Four
Remi
Vanessa—also known as Ness, Auntie Ness to Gavin, or the pink-haired monster of chaos to Muriel—showed up for her afternoon shift in an absolute tizzy.
“Holy shit, you’ll never believe what happened last night with Christian.”
I looked up from my computer and blinked. “Hi. What?”
“God, it was amazing. I kinda thought the party was it, because he was playing it cool and he didn’t call me for three weeks while he was on tour, right? But then he called me four times last week. I could’ve strung it out longer, but he’ssogorgeous, I figured that it was a pity to torture myself when I wanted the same thing he did, you know?”
I could take you right here, couldn’t I?
Shit. No. Bad Remi.
“Uh-huh. I hate that feeling. So we’re not talking to the guy with the piercings anymore, right?”
“The guy with the piercings was psycho. He wanted to name our future children after one night together.” She widened her eyes. “One night.”
“Maybe if you weren’t so sensational at everything, he would’ve been like every other guy and moved on after.”
“I know,” she sighed. Then she tilted her head. “You look pretty today.”
“I—what? I look the same as I do every day.”
“No. You put on blush or something.”
I gave her a crazy look. “No, I didn’t.”