Chapter 3 Jaime
JAIME
By the time I pushed through the glass doors of the hotel lobby, my arms were aching from the bags and Pampi’s travel crate. I scanned the crowd for Chris, blinking against the bright lighting.
I’d overslept. I’d spent half the night conditioning Pampi for the noise and bustle of the show environment, doing last-minute desensitizing drills, then giving her a quick show-style groom so she’d pass at first glance.
So I hadn’t seen the dozen messages Chris sent throughout the night:
Chris: are we meeting there?
Chris: should we walk in together?
Chris: what time should I be ready?
And then finally:
Chris: I’ll be at the lobby at 8:30.
I checked the time. Nine. Shit.
I spotted him before he spotted me. Chris was standing stiffly near a display of brochures, jaw clenched, foot tapping a little too fast.
When his eyes landed on me, he pushed away from the wall and strode over with purpose.
“Where were you?” he hissed. “You’re thirty minutes late. Thirty. One of the staff already asked if I was ready to check in, and I had to tell them I was waiting for my husband. Do you know how suspicious that sounds when said husband is nowhere in sight?”
I lifted one hand in a half-hearted wave. “Partners.”
“Huh?”
“You said husband,” I said. “But Cooper said Peter and John are partners. It’s written on their client sheet.”
Chris stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then scoffed. His hand dragged through his hair, pushing it back in a frustrated sweep.
The motion bared his throat, and his cheeks were flushed with irritation, a sharp color that made my wolf perk up in interest. I immediately shut that down. Hard.
“Look,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked, eyes fixed on me, like he was waiting to see what I was actually apologizing for.
“For being late,” I clarified. “I misjudged traffic.”
His expression didn’t change much.
“And for yesterday, at the kennel,” I added, the words more reluctant.
That earned me something. His lips pressed together, not quite a frown. Not quite forgiving either.
Chris studied me for a long second. I held his gaze. “Well? Do you accept my apology?” A beat.
“Fine,” Chris muttered, though I caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turned away. “Let’s check in before anyone else starts staring.”
The lobby was packed, mostly with show participants. Brightly colored shirts with dogs printed on them, lanyards with breed logos, laminated IDs swinging from necks.
People carried grooming kits, travel crates, and overflowing tote bags with slogans like Fluffy But Mighty.
It was chaos. I adjusted Pampi’s carrier against my hip, and nearly dropped it. Because I finally noticed what was on Chris’s shirt… What the hell.
I pointed at his chest, horrified. “What are you wearing?”
He looked down like he genuinely didn’t see the issue. Which was impossible, because the shirt was absolutely hideous.
It was a blinding shade of turquoise, covered in badly photoshopped sparkles, and in the center was a giant, wide-eyed, fluffy-eared Papillon.
Before I could rip into him again, he leaned in, far closer than necessary. His breath brushed my ear, sending a shiver down the side of my neck.
“It’s from Peter and John,” he murmured. “Figured it would help sell the cover. I got them to give us shirts. I’ll give you yours later.”
“I’m not wearing that,” I hissed.
“You will if we need to convince anyone—”
“Absolutely not.”
Before he could argue, the receptionist cleared her throat gently. “Um… hello? Checking in?”
We both jolted like she’d caught us doing something inappropriate, and Chris stepped forward quickly. “Yes. Sorry. Checking in.”
And even then, I could still feel the ghost of his breath on my skin.
Chris switched moods so fast it gave me whiplash. One second he was irritated, the next he was turning on a bright smile as he leaned over the counter to read the receptionist’s nametag.
“Morning, Janet,” he said, voice smooth enough that I almost rolled my eyes. “We have a booking under Hill.”
While she started typing, Chris dug through his bag with both hands, muttering something about “promotional materials.” A second later, he triumphantly pulled out another one of those hideous shirts.
Before he could even breathe in my direction with it, I snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it deep into my duffel bag.
Janet blinked at us. “Hill… Mr. Peter Hill?”
“Yes,” we both said at the same time.
We stared at each other like idiots. Then I cleared my throat and forced what I prayed passed as a normal expression.
“Yes,” I repeated. “I am Peter Hill.”
Janet nodded politely. “Check-in starts at three, but you’re welcome to leave your luggage here until the room is ready.” She clicked a few more keys. “Would you prefer a king bed or twins?”
“Twin beds,” I said immediately.
Chris hesitated—actually hesitated—and shot me a look. I could see the argument forming behind his eyes.
Something about how married couples were supposed to pick the king, how this would make it suspicious, blah, blah, blah. I refused to let this become a debate.
“We prefer two beds,” I repeated, louder this time, and added blandly, “Right, honey?”
His jaw tightened. I could feel him getting ready to test me, but unless he planned on sleeping on the hotel couch, I wasn’t budging.
Finally, with the fakest smile I’d ever seen, he turned to Janet. “Twins are perfect.”
For some reason, the way he smiled at her rubbed me the wrong way.
Not jealousy, nothing that ridiculous, of course. Maybe it was the fact that he could flip a switch and act like the perfect, charming fake husband while still making me want to wring his neck.
Then Chris slid an arm around my shoulders. I stiffened instantly, biting back the instinct to shove him off. His palm was too warm, his touch firm in a way that felt entirely too natural.
“Because,” Chris added to Janet with a sheepish chuckle, “we definitely want another bed for… you know.”
Janet gave an awkward little laugh. She looked like she wanted to disappear behind her monitor.
Two could play at this game.
I wrapped an arm around Chris’s waist, pulling him closer. His breath hitched in surprise. I smiled sweetly at Janet while my fingers dug hard into the muscle at his side.
Unfortunately, he was built like a damn brick wall. My pinch barely made a dent.
Chris leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed my ear. “You’ll have to do a lot better than that if you want to leave a mark, darling.”
Heat shot straight down my spine. I hated that my pulse stuttered. So I twisted harder.
“A—ow!” he gasped, then immediately covered it with a laugh. “We’re just… very passionate. Newlyweds, you know?”
Janet looked like she regretted asking anything.
“Is that all?” I asked, clearing my throat. “We’ll leave our bags for now. We need to go register for the show.”
“Yes, of course,” Janet said quickly. “We’ll bring everything up once the room’s ready.”
I shoved all my bags at Chris, everything except Pampi’s carrier, and didn’t bother hiding how done I was with him.
“Here. Make yourself useful,” I said, already turning away.
He didn’t even complain. Just took the bags like some annoyingly capable pack mule. I hurried toward the registration booths, still feeling heat climb up my neck. And I really, really wished I didn’t.
I didn’t know where that had come from. The teasing. The grabbing. The way I’d leaned into it instead of shutting it down. That wasn’t me at all.
I didn’t joke. I didn’t like playing along. I especially didn’t flirt in public like some love-struck idiot trying to sell a story. And yet, with Chris, it had felt almost easy.
I didn’t like that he seemed able to tug that side out of me without effort. Like he’d found a loose thread and given it a curious little pull.
I straightened my shoulders and forced my focus back where it belonged. Registration.
Behind me, I heard Chris jogging to catch up. Of course he’d still manage to keep pace with me even after handling our luggage.
Before he could open his mouth, the registration steward lifted her head.
“Next, please.”
I exhaled and stepped forward with Pampi’s carrier.
The steward typed something into her tablet. Then she frowned. Then she looked up at us.
“Um… there seems to be a mix-up,” she said, rotating the screen toward me. “You’re… Peter Hill, right?”
A profile photo filled the screen. It had Chris’s face. Not mine. My brain flatlined.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This could not go wrong on day one. Why was Chris’s picture here? Why wasn’t it mine? Why—
Chris slid up beside me, leaning an elbow casually on the counter as if this wasn’t a complete catastrophe.
“Ah, that’s on me,” he said, sounding warm and apologetic. “My computer’s ancient. Sometimes it attaches the wrong files if I don’t double-check. Sorry about that.”
The steward blinked, then laughed.
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “My old laptop used to rename every photo as Screenshot_01.”
Another judge nearby chuckled. “Technology hates dog shows. It’s a documented fact.”
“Right?” Chris said. “Total menace.”
And that was it. They were just buying it. Just like that.
“Alright,” the steward said cheerfully. “Everything else matches. You’re good to move on to measurements.”
Chris leaned down toward me, voice dipping low against my ear.
“Sorry, I thought I was supposed to be Peter.”
I elbowed him. “Peter is the primary handler. I’m handling, so I’m Peter.”
I turned before he could add anything else and headed toward the measurement station, where a folding table, scale, and height stick had been set up. A small line had already formed.
When it was our turn, I crouched beside Pampi’s carrier and unlatched the door.
She blinked up at me, dazed from the car ride and the sudden noise of the event hall. Her ears twitched at the overlapping scents of other dogs and unfamiliar shifters and humans.