Almost Real (Almost Ever After #2)

Chapter I Dog Days （Lena）

I

Dog Days

(Lena)

This job is bittersweet.

You don’t sign up for this business unless you live, sleep, and eat challenges.

Because no girl in her right mind dreams of spending her Friday evening cleaning up puddles of puppy pee.

I mean, it’s not that I mind. The puppies are adorable, bouncy little balls of golden floof, still finding their paws when they’re not mouthing everything in sight. Who am I to judge them for not knowing how to hold their bladders yet?

At their age, I probably couldn’t either.

But I love my job, urine and all.

Maybe I’d skip janitor duty if I could. But you don’t get the sparkle in life without taking out the trash.

So, here I am, mopping and disinfecting until my arms hurt. It’s just before closing, and I’m doing my very best not to eavesdrop on Dr. Ezzie’s conversation like the shameless rat I am.

Easier said than done when her office door is cracked open.

And I was born curious. Came out of the hospital wanting to know everything about everyone, so yes, my ears perk up at the concern in my boss’s voice.

Not good.

I can’t quite make out the words, but I don’t need to when her tone gives away so much. That sad, clipped edge in her voice says the news she’s getting isn’t sunshine and rainbows.

I finish cleaning and flush the dirty water from the bucket down the sink in the back room. Even from here, I can hear the way Dr. Ezzie’s tone rises and falls in the background, this nervous rhythm with a slight hush that hints she’s trying so hard not to overreact.

My heart hurts.

It has to be about her folks again.

Last week, her elderly father had a nasty fall and broke his hip.

That’s what happens when people get old—just like animals—but it doesn’t make it suck any less. Dr. Ezzie came in frazzled this morning, straight from the hospital, trading one bone-white center for sick creatures for another.

Straight from looking out for her dad to looking out for us.

As for her mom . . . well, I guess the jury’s out on whether she’s still all there. The last time she visited, her mother didn’t recognize her.

The thought hits me with anxiety.

It makes me worry for my own mom one day, and mourn the way I’ll never get a chance to face love and frailty with my dad because he’s already gone. But that’s not the only reason I’m worried today.

Why does this feel like a bad omen for Pawsome Hearts?

We’re a small clinic. One of those scrappy family-run businesses that put the well-being of our furry, feathered, scaly patients above all else. Dr. Ezzie drives the whole operation.

She’s the entire reason I applied for a position here, and I’ve loved it ever since.

But if she has to quit to play full-time caregiver or just because the job becomes too much when she’s got so much on her plate—

I don’t know.

I don’t have a clue what that means for the clinic without its owner.

And honestly, that scares me.

There’s no one standing by to swoop in and fill her shoes, to give us a fighting chance in a crowded Seattle market.

Without Dr. Ezzie, Pawsome Hearts won’t exist.

Not without a buyout from one of those big corporate places where they count dollar signs more than healthy animals. I can only pray that doesn’t happen.

Having our supplies and every hour I work micromanaged to “streamline” efficiency is not what I signed up for.

I glance at my smartwatch. It’s eight o’clock now—closing time.

Finally.

I head to the door to flip the sign and make sure it’s locked, pausing at the window to glance over the property.

Across the courtyard, on the edge of the parking lot, there’s the building for the kennels that backs up to the park, where dogs are bedding down for the evening. Keith, our lone night shift boarding guy, gives me a friendly wave as he circles back inside to check on them.

For Seattle, Pawsome Hearts is a unicorn. One of those rare overgrown green spaces bursting with small-town vibes in the big city, where people still know each other’s names and greet you with a smile.

No, I wouldn’t dare change a thing, even if our daily operations demand it.

When I first hired on, we had more kennel workers for boarding. We had larger kennels too.

It’s been a tough year. Even without Dr. Ezzie leaking deets about her finances, I know that.

It’s pretty impossible to miss when we’ve had to make cuts left, right, and center.

I suppose I should be happy, though.

I still get to work here.

I still get to help awesome pets and mend their owners’ worried hearts. All in a day’s work for a tireless vet tech who runs on iced lattes and ginseng tea.

Hopefully that won’t change.

I’m still mulling that over when I see people approaching the door. Just before I can reach them to say we’re closed, the bell jingles.

Great. I was so distracted I left it unlocked.

I instantly know this won’t be an easy job.

Not because of the dog but because of the people bringing it in.

They’re picture perfect, like they were built from the ground up with Olympian genes and born to make cameras smile. They look like they know their best angles better than their own names.

The man—he’s a giant.

Insanely tall with thick, dark hair pushed back off his face and flashing blue eyes that stop me in my tracks.

Pretty boy doesn’t do him justice.

Not when he’s billboard pretty, all short, trimmed beard and sculpted muscle and this big lopsided smile that suggests he’s used to getting his way.

Late twenties or early thirties, I’d guess.

Although he looks casual, dressed down in a crisp T-shirt and shorts, his outfit has that timeless quality that tells me everything he’s wearing drips money.

Not to mention the Apple Watch with the designer wristband on his arm. That gold looks real, and it’s totally not the default rubber wristband those watches come with.

There’s something else too.

The way he carries himself has an aura. Something like raw confidence except sharper, more intense—pure command, maybe.

Or maybe I’m just that helpless against staggering good looks that practically give him a glowing head like an Orthodox saint. He’s the kind of visceral handsome that punches you in the face.

Beside him, the blonde is also tall, though she barely reaches his shoulder height. Statuesque would be a good description. She has severe pouty features that look like they’ve been carved from marble by a sculptor intent on capturing resting bitchface in grim realism.

By the way she holds herself, hip out and breasts pushed up, I’m almost certain she is a model.

She’s also sneering at me before I’ve said a single word.

Bad move. It’s way too late for this kind of client.

But there’s a wiggling corgi in the man’s arms with a floppy pink tongue and sad whale eyes that say he’d rather not be here.

Me too, little guy.

I feel for the corgi. I’m already no fan of his owners, and they’ve been here for ten seconds.

Although I have to admit: The man is hot.

Like, not just a little bit hot. The blow-your-socks-off, every-woman’s-dirty-secret kind of hot. Rugged and piercing like he makes workouts and stern glares his whole personality.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

But in my experience, I know guys like him. Too good looking, made from old family fortunes and tech money. They don’t have much else to fall back on.

At least he’s smiling, though.

I can’t say the same for Miss Scowlypants.

“Hi,” I say, plastering on my own fake smile. “I’m sorry, but we just closed. If it’s an emergency, there’s a local animal hospital over in—”

“We need a quick look.” The man dials his smile up another notch while his eyes harden. Oh God. I practically need shades. “We found this little guy while we were hiking, hiding under a stack of driftwood. He seems dehydrated—he’s been panting like hell, anyway.”

Hmph.

I catch myself nodding before I can grimace. I just said we were closed, but here I am, ready to come rushing to the rescue.

Wow, he’s good.

“The air’s pure soot today. All the smoke from the wildfires,” he continues. “With the heat, I wanted to make sure his lungs are good. You know, just in case he’s having an allergic reaction or something to all this crap in the atmosphere.”

Ugh.

He has a point.

There is a lot of smoke dusting Seattle lately—a pattern that keeps repeating way too often during our summers. Today it’s that hazy, slightly grey smog hanging around that makes your nostrils burn like you’ve just inhaled seawater.

The fires up in British Columbia haven’t spread down to Washington, thank God, but the smoke has drifted south.

Usually does, but this year it’s hitting earlier and it’s lingering.

He’s also right—animals can suffer plenty from breathing it. The poor dog’s tongue is hanging out, meaning the little guy probably is dehydrated. His sides keep rising and falling with each breath, a little more than they should.

I bet he’s hungry, too, especially if they don’t know how long he was lost out there.

Blondie McScowlyface rolls her eyes like a cheerleader in a ’90s sitcom. She’s wearing winged eyeliner that looks so dramatic it practically reaches her ears.

Catlike, definitely.

It’s a look, for sure.

“She said no,” she whines, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, her voice is as grating as her sour pout. “God, Brady. Why can’t you ever take no for an answer?”

Brady, huh?

It feels oddly good to put a name to his ridiculously handsome face.

“Because I want him checked out,” Brady says firmly, flashing her a pointed look.

“Yeah, but how is this dog our problem?” She folds her arms, tapping the toe of her designer boot on the floor. “Just drop him off with animal control and be done with it.”

Yep, it’s not just the face.

Raging bitch confirmed.

I have to bite the tip of my tongue and choke down my disgust.

Customer face on.

Even when the customer has a lump of coal instead of a beating heart.

Even when Brady isn’t much better, barging in after hours and demanding we do something. But at least his heart’s in the right place.