Chapter 11 Jaime
JAIME
Once Chris left for the sheriff’s office, the suite felt unusually quiet. I grabbed Pampi’s leash and clipped it onto her collar.
“Alright, girl,” I said. “Let’s go be nosy.”
The lobby had that quiet, busy hotel feel, with low conversations, the soft roll of luggage wheels, and the smell of coffee drifting from the café near the entrance.
A few handlers lingered by the seating area, talking about the upcoming Group round now that the competition had resumed.
Janet spotted me before I even reached her desk.
“Mr. Hill! Good morning. And hello again, sweetheart.” She leaned over slightly to smile at Pampi.
“Morning,” I said, steering Pampi closer. “Keeping up with everything?”
She laughed. “Barely. After the arrest and the postponement, I thought the whole event was going to collapse. Quite a few guests checked out early.”
“How many?” I asked.
“More than a handful. Some didn’t feel comfortable staying. Others had scheduling conflicts once the semi-finals were delayed.” She gave me a small smile. “I’m glad you and your husband decided to stay.”
The word husband hit harder than it should have.
“Yeah,” I said evenly. “Figured we’d see it through.”
She smiled, softer this time. “I’m glad. Things seem better between you two.”
I frowned. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh. I’m sorry. That was probably out of line.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
“When you checked in,” she said carefully, lowering her voice, “it just seemed like… well, you both looked so tense. But lately, you seem happier. Lighter.”
I forced a small smile. “It was just travel stress.”
She nodded, still faintly apologetic. “Of course. I shouldn’t assume.”
I guess we didn’t exactly look like a loving married couple when we arrived. For people undercover, we’d done a spectacularly mediocre job.
Relief hit when a guest approached the desk, suitcase in hand.
Janet gave me a grateful smile. “I’ll let you get on with your day.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I stepped away, Pampi trotting beside me, and only then realized how much I missed having Chris around.
Ridiculous. He’d been gone less than an hour. Still, the space beside me felt off.
No steady warmth at my shoulder. No quiet awareness of where he stood in a room. No faint hint of sandalwood and clean soap in the air.
Before I could think better of it, I pulled out my phone.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary.
For a second, I considered sending something flirty. Something that would make him grin that slow, dangerous grin he’d worn last night when his mouth had been on my skin.
I snorted. Absolutely not. I typed instead:
Any update?
Less than ten seconds later, he called.
“Hey,” he said, low and warm through the speaker.
“Hey.”
“Still here,” he said. “They’re processing paperwork. I talked to the suspect. He’s nervous but not saying much. I’m going to check in with Cooper after. Shouldn’t take long.”
“You think he’s working alone?” I asked.
“No,” Chris said without hesitation. “Something’s off about all of this.”
That matched my instincts.
“I’m heading to the clinic,” I told him. “Thought I’d poke around for a bit. See if any other dogs came in with similar symptoms.”
“The veterinary station?” he clarified.
“Yeah. Pampi’s due for a follow-up anyway. Dr. Mitchell said she wanted to recheck her leg after the semi-finals.”
There was a brief pause.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked. “We could look at the intake records together. See if there’s a pattern.”
I considered it, then shook my head. “I’ll do an initial pass. If anything’s worth digging into, we’ll check it together.”
“You sure?”
I huffed quietly. “I’m capable of asking basic questions, Chris.”
He chuckled softly. “I know you can. Text me if you find out anything.”
“I will.”
“Be careful,” he added.
“You too,” I said, ending the call and slipping my phone into my pocket. I clipped Pampi’s leash more securely and started toward the show’s veterinary station.
The veterinary station had been set up in one of the smaller conference rooms off the main ballroom corridor. A volunteer sat at a folding desk near the entrance with a clipboard.
“Name and dog?” she asked.
“Peter Hill. Follow-up on a hind leg strain. Pampi.”
She scanned the list and nodded. “Dr. Mitchell will be right with you. You can take a seat.”
Pampi leaned against my leg as we waited.
Dr. Mitchell appeared a few minutes later. “Mr. Hill,” she greeted. “How’s our star today?”
She crouched to examine Pampi’s leg. A few gentle presses later, she straightened. “She’s healing well. Keep her activity moderate for another day or two. No sharp pivots.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“Take a seat for a few minutes. I’ll refill her anti-inflammatory before you go.”
I sat back down, hand on Pampi’s back.
The curtain at the other end of the room rustled open. I looked up and immediately winced. Harold stepped out, leash in hand, his poodle close by.
“Peter!” he exclaimed, brightening. “Well, what a surprise!”
He was a nice enough man. Retired accountant, if I remembered correctly. Just a little too friendly.
At dinner the night before, after a few glasses of wine, he had practically hovered at my side.
What had started as a casual conversation about grooming and training had quickly turned into nonstop praise and questions.
I wasn’t comfortable with that much attention, and I had no intention of going through it again.
Unfortunately, Harold was already steering his dog toward me.
“You and Pampi had a marvelous run yesterday,” he said warmly. “Absolutely marvelous.”
I nodded politely. “Thank you.”
He gave his poodle a quick scratch behind the ears. “You handled her beautifully. Very skilled. You don’t see that kind of rapport much anymore.”
I resisted the urge to grimace. He had already said something similar last night.
Pampi, traitor that she was, puffed up beside me like she understood every word. Her tail wagged harder, and she shifted her weight as if ready to prance. I pressed my palm gently against her lower back.
“Sit,” I murmured under my breath. She obeyed, though I could feel the smug satisfaction radiating off her.
Harold beamed at her. “See? She adores you. You can tell.”
Then Harold sighed. “I would have loved to watch you both run in the finals, but we’re leaving today.”
That caught my attention. “Why? What happened?”
He bent to stroke the poodle’s head. “Daisy isn’t well. Must have eaten something she shouldn’t have. She’s feeling quite lethargic. Not herself at all.”
My spine went still. “Since when?” I asked.
“Oh, late last night, maybe early this morning. Hard to tell. Dr. Mitchell is giving her something to tide her over, but I’ll be taking my sweet Daisy to our regular vet back home. No point staying if she’s unwell. Shows come and go. My girl doesn’t.”
I nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy. “That’s rough. Did she get into anything unusual?”
He frowned slightly. “Not that I noticed. Though with all the commotion these past few days, who knows?”
Harold straightened with a faint groan. “Well, I’m glad I saw you and Pampi one last time, Peter. I hope we meet again at the next show, preferably one with fewer incidents.”
His gaze lingered, warm and almost sentimental.
I gave him a genuine smile. “Safe travels.”
He gave Pampi one final affectionate look before shuffling toward the exit, Daisy walking slowly at his side.
My thoughts moved quickly. Harold was human. Up until now, the working theory—mine, at least—had been that shifter-owned dogs were the target. Harold didn’t fit that pattern.
Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe Daisy had really eaten something off the ground. It wouldn’t have been the first time a dog grabbed something questionable near a show venue.
Still, the other cases hadn’t sounded severe enough for handlers to withdraw. Harold had looked genuinely worried.
Then again, he did struck me as the kind who would pull out at the first sign of discomfort rather than push for a ribbon.
The curtain shifted again.
“Mr. Hill?” Dr. Mitchell called.
I followed her to the exam room. She handed me Pampi’s anti-inflammatory refill.
I cleared my throat. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you had any other cases? Dogs coming in sick?”
“Not recently,” she said automatically. Then she paused. “Well… not at this event.”
I waited for her to elaborate.
“At the show before this one,” she continued, thinking aloud, “there were a few mild gastrointestinal cases. Nothing serious. A handful of dogs with vomiting, loose stools. We assumed dietary indiscretion. Show environments are chaotic.”
Another show. That must have been the one Peter had attended before coming to Cooper for help.
“Same symptoms?” I asked.
“More or less. Short-lived. Resolved within a day or two.”
I thought of Harold and Daisy’s sluggish walk. I should have asked him more. What she had eaten. Whether she had been near anyone specific. Whether he had spoken to Marion recently.
“Is there a common supplier for food vendors at these events?” I asked.
Dr. Mitchell gave me a curious look. “Sometimes. Why?”
“Just wondering if it could have been a bad batch of treats.”
“Possible,” she conceded. “Though most serious handlers bring their own.”
I nodded slowly.
“Pampi’s fine,” she repeated gently, misreading my concern. “I promise.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I paid at the front desk, clipped Pampi’s leash back on, and stepped into the hallway. I nearly ran straight into Marion, his Doberman sitting neatly at his side.
“Peter,” he greeted. My wolf stirred, alert. “Are you here for Pampi’s leg?”
I went still for half a second. “How’d you know?” I asked lightly.
He shrugged. “I watched your run yesterday.”
Something in my chest tightened. Watching was normal. Handlers observed each other all the time. Chris and I did the same. Still, there was something about the way he said it.
“She’s fine, just needs a little rest.”
“Good.” His gaze lingered a fraction too long on me before dropping to Pampi. “Would be a shame if you had to withdraw.”
“And you?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“Atlas isn’t feeling great. He’s a little sluggish this morning.” He scratched behind the Doberman’s ears.
That was odd. Both Harold and Marion were humans. I’d been so focused on the shifter angle that I might have overlooked something obvious.
“Mind if I sit in?” I asked. “Curious if it’s contagious. Wouldn’t want Pampi picking it up.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling.
We walked back inside. Dr. Mitchell guided Atlas onto the exam table.
“He skipped breakfast, and his stool was loose,” Marion explained to the vet.
“Any dietary changes? Maybe he ingested something?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Marion said.
Dr. Mitchell palpated Atlas’s abdomen. “No tenderness. Temperature’s normal.”
Marion frowned. “But he’s definitely off… started last night.”
I noted the timing. Same window. Same vague onset as Harold’s dog.
Dr. Mitchell studied him a moment longer. “Odd. Clinically, he looks fine.”
“He isn’t,” Marion insisted.
“I’d like to run a quick blood panel,” she said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Marion replied smoothly.
She clipped a lead onto Atlas’s collar and guided him past the privacy divider.
Once we were alone, Marion leaned back against the counter, arms folded casually. He didn’t look worried at all.
“So,” he said lightly, “is this John’s first show? He doesn’t seem very used to handling.”
“We’ve both been on the circuit,” I replied evenly.
“Have you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall seeing either of you before this season. I tend to remember the competition.”
“I’ve been in it longer. He only started running dogs with me after we got married.”
“Married,” he repeated. “Right, must have slipped my mind.”
“We share the same last name,” I said flatly.
“Plenty of reasons for that,” he waved off. He glanced at Dr. Mitchell, who stepped in and out quickly with a clipboard, clearly eager to avoid our conversation.
Marion chuckled. “When I first saw you two, it didn’t exactly scream marital bliss. You looked like you didn’t even want to be in the same room.”
“You just caught us at a bad moment,” I said with a thin smile.
“Fair enough.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “But don’t get me wrong. I admire your handling. I can’t believe I haven’t heard of you before. As for your husband… well, he has potential. But in the heats the other day—”
“What about it?”
“He hesitated,” Marion said mildly. “Just for a second. That kind of doubt costs time.”
“He didn’t hesitate,” I said, jaw tightening.
“Perhaps. But I used to run with a partner,” Marion said slowly.
“High-stakes shows like these, it just takes one bad fight, one tense moment, and a run’s lost. After that, I learned not to mix romance with competition.
All I’m saying is… it’s risky. Especially if one of you isn’t fully committed.
I wouldn’t want someone chickening out when it matters. ”
Heat flared up my spine. What did he know? What did any of them know?
Chris and his entire family had moved to Pecan Pines to build something there. He was at the sheriff’s office right now digging for answers while I stood here, playing polite.
And this man, this smug, observant—
Before I could stop myself, I spoke, keeping my tone even despite the heat rising in me. “You may think my partner is some inexperienced wannabe riding on his husband’s coattails,” I said. “And yes, he can be overenthusiastic. But I trust him. Fully.”
Marion studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “I hope that works out for you.”
I didn’t wait for Dr. Mitchell to return. I picked Pampi up and walked out, a knot of frustration and worry twisting in my chest.
Halfway down the hallway, I saw him. Chris was leaning against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes on the clinic doors.
“There you are,” he said, smiling, though the edges of it were taut. “Everything alright?”
I swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just checking on Pampi.”
He stepped closer automatically, his presence solid and familiar, close enough that I could feel his warmth through the thin space between us.
“You okay?” he asked, softer this time.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m taking her for a short walk. Light exercise. Keep the leg moving.”
His eyes searched my face for a beat longer than I liked.
“Meet you back at the room?”
“Yeah.” I stepped around him before he could ask anything else.