3
Ashanti took in the man waiting just to the right of the reception desk. He stood with arms crossed over a very nice, incredibly solid-looking chest. Sunglasses—seriously, dude, wearing sunglasses inside?—covered what appeared to be a very nice, incredibly chiseled, light brown face. He could cut steel with that jawline.
Several tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his short-sleeved T-shirt, which strained around sinewy biceps. His sculpted muscles looked as if they had been carved out of the granite she wanted for her kitchen countertops.
He was average height, yet he took up too much space, standing there with his legs braced apart and an irritated look on his face. Guess she wasn’t the only one having a sucky Monday.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“This guy says he’s here to pick up Puddin’,” Deja offered.
Ashanti’s forehead furrowed with instant skepticism.
Puddin’ had been a round-the-clock boarder for the past five weeks, ever since her owner suffered a fall. Frances Sutherland had called Ashanti from the ambulance, asking her to go to her home in Tremé to retrieve her beloved poodle. Ashanti had made sure someone at the daycare texted her a daily photo ever since.
“How do you know Puddin’?” she asked, looking at the portrait of Harry and Meghan just above his shoulder instead of his appealing jawline. The Sussexes were safer.
“It’s my grandmother’s dog,” he said. “She sent me to pick it up.”
“Mrs. Frances is out of the hospital?” Ashanti asked, relief filling her chest. “That is so good to hear. I’m surprised she didn’t call to tell me she was home. She knows I would have brought Puddin’ to the house for her.”
“She’s not home,” he said. “Well, not at her house, at least. Look, can you just get the dog?”
His brusque manner caught her off guard.
Mrs. Frances had often mentioned she had a grandson in the Army. His muscular build supported the idea of him being a soldier, but that didn’t mean she would just hand the dog over to him without confirming his identity.
“Deja can check Puddin’s profile, but I’m pretty certain the only other person authorized to pick him up is Mrs. Frances’s neighbor, Tasha Jones. And Tasha is on a nursing assignment out of town.” She wanted him to know that she knew her clients. “You will need to provide proof that you have permission to pick up Puddin’ before we can release him to you, Mr. Sutherland.”
“It’s Sims,” he said.
“Sorry. Mr. Sims,” she corrected.
He continued to stand there with his arms crossed over his chest. Ashanti waited for him to say something else.
“Well?” Ashanti asked.
“You were serious.” It was a statement more than a question, but she answered it anyway.
“Of course I’m serious. We do not allow people to just come in off the street and leave with a client’s dog.”
He released an exasperated sigh. “It’s just a dog.”
Just a dog?
“Do you have any idea how much a purebred standard poodle goes for? Puddin’ is not just a dog. And if you were really related to Mrs. Frances, you would know that she does not consider Puddin’ to be ‘just a dog’ either. He’s her family.”
Mr. Sims removed his sunglasses and hooked them on the front collar of his T-shirt like an extra straight out of an eighties movie. Ashanti had not been prepared for his eyes. They were gorgeous. Chocolate brown and stunningly gorgeous.
He retrieved a cell phone from his back pocket, swiped across the screen, then turned the phone to face Ashanti. A moment later, Frances Sutherland’s kind face stared back at her.
“Mrs. Frances!” Ashanti said, unable to contain her glee at seeing one of her favorite people in the world. “How are you?”
“This hip has put me out of commission,” Mrs. Frances replied. “How is my Puddin’? Is he giving Thad a hard time? Those two don’t get along, but they’re about to become the best of friends.”
Ashanti glanced up at the woman’s grandson long enough to notice how his already chiseled jaw became even more rigid.
“So, Mr. Sims here really is your grandson?”
“I told you that,” he said.
“Yes, that’s my grandson, Thaddeus,” Mrs. Frances said at the same time. “His friends all call him Thad.” Then she added, “He’s single.”
Another sigh from Sunglasses—aka Thaddeus. This sigh was more irritated than exasperated. He turned the camera to face him. “Grams, can you just give her permission to release the dog to me?”
Surly. Single and surly.
As much as Ashanti wanted to say it, she abstained. “I can add Thaddeus as an authorized custodian if that’s what you would like, Mrs. Frances.”
“Please do. Thad will be picking Puddin’ up from now on. This new place they put me in doesn’t allow pets.”
“You had to leave your home?” Ashanti’s heart pulled. When she’d talked to her last week, Mrs. Frances was still in the rehabilitation facility but hoping to be released soon. “I’m so sorry. Maybe the new place would be willing to make an exception. I can vouch for Puddin’ if you’d like.”
Thaddeus turned the phone to his face again. “Grams, I need to go. You and your friend will have to pick up this conversation another time.”
“Bring Puddin’ to see me as soon as you leave Ashanti’s,” Mrs. Frances hollered before he disconnected the call.
He stuck the phone back into his pocket and said, “Can you get the dog now?”
“What’s going on with Mrs. Frances? Why isn’t she at her house? Did they extend her rehab? Is she in skilled nursing? How long before she gets to return home?”
Ashanti knew she’d gone overboard by the third question, but she couldn’t help it. Frances Sutherland was truly one of her favorite people. She was the one who’d first encouraged Ashanti to sell the baked treats that she initially only gave out as a weekly gift to her regulars. She was also one of those older Black Southern women who constantly shared unsolicited advice, but who did so in such a subtle and polite way that you didn’t mind.
“I’m just concerned,” Ashanti said. “I’ve known your grandmother for years.”
For a moment she thought he would ignore her barrage of questions, but then he said, “She had to move to an assisted living facility. She’s doing better after hip surgery, but she needs to be in a place where there are people who can take care of her if something like this happens again.”
That must have been a hard pill to swallow for such an independent woman.
“Is it the facility on Orleans Avenue or the one on Esplanade?” Ashanti asked.
He cocked his head to the side and stared at her, his expression the very definition of annoyance. “You’re her dog sitter. Why do you need to know all of this?”
“Because I consider Mrs. Frances a friend,” Ashanti said. She was beyond offended by his tone and by being relegated to the role of a simple dog sitter. She owned this business, and she did a hell of a lot more here than just dog sit.
“What is your problem?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“My problem?” he asked as he reached into the pocket opposite where he’d put his phone and retrieved a wallet. “Let’s see. Maybe it’s that we’re standing here playing twenty questions instead of you getting that dog so I can get on with the rest of my day.” He slid out a credit card and handed it to Deja. “You can put the balance on this.”
In the span of five seconds there were at least five inappropriate responses that nearly shot out of Ashanti’s mouth. But he was a client. Well, client-adjacent. The first rule of being a good business owner was that you did not curse out your clients. No matter how much they deserved it.
Her eyes still trained on him, she sucked in a calming breath before she said, “Deja, please ask Leslie to bring Puddin’ up to reception. He should have three containers of food in the refrigerator. Have her bring those too.”
Thaddeus’s bored look only agitated her more as they waited for the dog.
He must be adopted. Or maybe it was one of those situations where Mrs. Frances had taken him in as a kid and he’d started calling her his grandmother. There had to be some other explanation, because there was no way this cranky-ass man and that sweet, kind woman had the same blood running through their veins.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the credit card and receipt Deja handed him. He looked at the printout then looked at Ashanti. “Are you serious?”
Before she could respond, the pocket doors slid open and Leslie came in with Puddin’. The poodle growled at Thaddeus before running to Ashanti’s side.
Smart dog.
She dropped to one knee and rubbed his fluffy ears.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I know you don’t want to go with this”—she looked up at Thaddeus—“man. But it’ll be okay.” She stood. “He’s had his morning meal. He eats again at six.” She handed Thaddeus the containers with the homemade food that Leslie had brought up from the back, then walked over to the display rack and pulled a small bag of the hypoallergenic kibble from the shelf. “I’m not sure if Mrs. Frances has any of Puddin’s food at home. He has strict dietary restrictions. Mix a half cup of the food in those containers with a half cup of the food in this bag.”
Shaking his head again as he reached for the dog food, Thaddeus muttered, “It’s a dog. He’ll be happy with whatever I give him.”
Ashanti pulled the bag away before he could grab it. “Why don’t you just leave him here?” she suggested. “We’ve been taking care of Puddin’ for the past two years. He knows and loves the entire staff.”
“Lady, come on. I need to get going.”
Lady?
She nearly broke the first rule of being a good business owner.
Holding back another barrage of swear words she rarely used, she finally handed him the food, then fluffed Puddin’s topknot. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie.”
“No, you won’t,” Thaddeus said as he wrapped Puddin’s turquoise-and-black zebra-striped leash around his hand. “I’m not wasting money sending this dog to daycare.”
“What?” Ashanti all but gasped. He could not be serious. “Where will he go during the day?”
“He will be at the house like a normal dog.”
“Puddin’ is not a normal dog! Wait, no. I mean, of course, he’s a normal dog, but he needs social interaction. I told you, Mrs. Frances has been sending him here for two years.”
“Have a nice day,” he said, turning for the door.
“But our annual dog pageant is this weekend,” Ashanti called. “Puddin’ always takes part.”
“Not this year,” he said without bothering to look back.
She stared in dismay as he and Puddin’ exited the lobby.
“What an ass,” Ashanti said the minute the door closed behind him.
“With a very nice ass,” Leslie added.
She wasn’t lying.