Chapter 2
Luke
“Why did you tell me this would be a good idea?” I ask, J.B., scrubbing my hand up and down my face. Bogey, my Siberian Husky, is running wild with one of my brand new headcovers, straight toward the grave he’s dug for the old ones.
“It is a good idea,” my agent says. “But I do want to put it out there that I said to get a ‘pet’. Not a dog.”
Dirt’s flying, and I drop my head in my hand.
“You just need help. Has she responded to any of your messages?” J.B. asks, as a car door closes, and the call drops from his Bluetooth.
Given how I treated her, it’s no surprise. Claire and J.B. made me think she might.
Snorting, I respond, “She hasn’t. Did you find anyone else?”
After I sent Genevieve my fifth text message, I asked both my sister and my agent to start looking for another dog trainer, because I was pretty sure my ex-girlfriend wasn’t going to be helping me anytime soon.
My chest tightens.
My breath is shallow.
The grounding technique my therapist taught me kicks in, and I immediately start looking around, focusing on five things I see.
Bogey is in the back of the yard digging. No, that’s not helpful.
Red Maples in the neighbor’s yard.
Blue sky.
That cloud—cotton candy.
Pink tulips nodding in the breeze.
Phone. Still in my hand
J.B.’s voice penetrates my haze, just as my hand lands on something soft.
“—a few messages, but haven’t gotten any calls back yet. What about your sister? Has she had any luck?”
Slowly, I move my fingers through Bogey’s fur, the weight of his body as he leans against my leg.
“I haven’t heard back from her yet.” I look down at the dog, who was busy turning my yard into a war zone, now leaning against my leg like a weighted blanket.
It’s in moments like this that I’m positive that adopting the big goof from Fur-Ever Homes was the best thing I’ve ever done. It’s the other ninety-nine percent that has me questioning my sanity.
“Bogs, please. Can you cut me some slack and just pretend to be a good boy? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Bogey turns his head up to me, his tongue lolling, and winks at me. No, seriously, only one eye blinked. My mouth falls open, and he lets out an ‘Awoooowoooo’ before heading back to digging trenches.
“Are you seriously trying to negotiate with your dog?” J.B. snorts, and I scowl at the phone.
“Look, he’s smart. Really smart,” I snip. “Anytime panic comes over me, he’s glued to my side, maybe we just need to have a good sit-down.”
J.B. roars on the other end of the line, and I squeeze the phone, tempted to hang up on him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat, but his tone still holds some of the laughter. “You’re right. Maybe he does just need a good talking to.” He covers his laugh with a cough.
“You’re not funny.” I pinch my brow and squeeze, attempting to diffuse the pressure that’s building.
“Ahh, c’mon,” he pleads. “We both know I can be pretty funny.”
He’s right, he’s usually hilarious. It’s actually one of the reasons I hired him as my agent after I fired my father.
The announcers began calling me Golf’s Grim Reaper when I started burying guys by ten strokes or more. Dad loved it. Wore the nickname like it proved he’d built the perfect machine. I just wanted to keep winning.
He turned me into this cold, machine-like golfer and was proud of it. I let him strip away the simple joy of just hitting balls at the range for fun. The first tournament I finished and felt empty instead of alive was when I came to resent him.
But then the panic attacks started. Every time I stepped up to the tee, my sternum was heavy, I struggled to breathe, and the edge of my vision would darken.
Nothing I did worked to calm me.
My leads started dropping.
Dad kept pushing. His voice in my head on every tee box only tightened the noose around my neck.
Third at The Genesis Invitational, Dad screaming in the scorer’s tent. Telling me I’d thrown everything he worked for away.
My vision tunneled, and I couldn’t breathe.
That’s when I fired him.
Since that day, conversations with my dad have felt like stepping up to the tee with him holding the pin. I hate that my mom is in the middle, even though she understands why I made the choice I did. She was even the one who got me J.B.’s number.
A secret we hid from my father. If he ever found out, he’d drag Mom and Claire into it, and blame them for “siding against him,” turning every family gathering into a battlefield. I shiver at the thought.
Hiring J.B. has been the best thing I’ve done. Not just for my career, but for me. It’s why he suggested a therapist and then a pet from his favorite rescue.
He wasn’t talking about a dog, and I knew it, but when I saw Bogey and his crystal blue eyes, I was a goner. Images of red hair in the sunlight, the way she laughed at my dumb jokes. I realized a dog could be the perfect excuse.
A dog. A trainer. Her.
Gen agreeing to work with me was a long shot, but one I was desperate to take. I just didn’t realize how badly I would need help with the dog.
“Listen,” J.B.’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I’ll reach out to some other people and see what I can find. Do you know if Claire tried calling Genevieve?"
“I asked her yesterday if she would. But I’m not sure if she did.”
“Luke.” My sister says my name with an extra hard ‘k’, a sure sign she’s annoyed with me. “You know I hate being in the middle of you and Gen after how you treated her. It’s not fair to ask me to reach out to her.”
“I know, Claire, and I’m sorry, but I’m desperate. Bogey is more of a handful than I thought—”
“No. You knew he would be a handful, and I’m sure you could find another dog trainer to work with if you just tried. What are you really doing?”
“I…” I should just tell my sister the truth. “I messed up. I want another chance.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Claire blew out a breath. “But if you hurt her again, this time you don’t have Dad to blame for walking away.”
“I promise. I just want an opening. If she won’t agree, I’ll work with someone else.” My gut sinks at the thought, but it’s more likely than not. “Would you get me some other recommendations?”
“Who do I look like, Mom?”
“Hey! We both know that Mom’s voice is much nicer than yours.”
“Watch it, mister.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. “You’re going to owe me for this.”
“Anything.”
Just then, a text comes through.
Gen
Be available tomorrow in the afternoon.
What’s your address?
I’m charging you my high-maintenance client rate.
A grin sneaks out, and a lightness spreads across my chest as I tell her that I’ll be available anytime she needs me, my address, and that I’m more than happy to pay top dollar.
Gen
Don’t push your luck.
“She’s coming tomorrow,” I say breathlessly, completely amazed that Genevieve will be at my house tomorrow.
I got my foot in the door. Hopefully, she won’t slam it on me.
“That sister of yours is something—”
My head starts racing as I think about the clothes strewn all around the house. I can’t let Genevieve see it like that. “I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Make sure you take a shower!” J.B. shouts, and I scowl at the phone. “And shave.”
“Thanks,” I grumble as I hang up.
But he’s right, Gen is the last person I want to see me buried in pure chaos. Even if I’m the one who caused it.