11. Lennox
Chapter 11
Lennox
Moving Willow and her fluffy dictator into my place is an experience, to say the least. We end up storing her furniture in the fourth garage stall I never use. One day, we’ll figure out what to do with it all, but not at the moment.
Willow’s surprisingly organized, all calm efficiency amid the chaos of boxes and furniture rearrangement. Since I’ve returned to working in the field, I’m not around as much, so unpacking is falling mostly on her shoulders.
Convincing the little shit he’s no longer welcome in our bed isn’t easy, but it has to be done. I’ve been sleeping horribly every night since the little terror refuses to sleep anywhere except right between Willow and me.
I tried to be patient, but after weeks of being nudged off the bed by a furry dictator in miniature, I'm grouchy and in need of sleep.
We decide to order him a fancy-ass dog bed that attaches to Willow’s side of the bed. Chewy views our attempts to negotiate with him with contempt, so I end up taking a different, more direct approach with him. I firmly place him on the fancy dog bed and stare into his eyes, sending a non-verbal message that can be summarized as "I am the alpha male. You will obey," as I lie down next to Willow.
The little shit grumbles and whines but doesn’t jump out of the bed. At least not right away. At some point in the night, he sneaks into our bed and snuggles between us.
The next night, we follow the same routine, but I force myself to lie wide awake in the dark, waiting for him to make his move. When his little paws scoot over the covers, I lean up and growl his name. With a look of utter defeat, he trots back over to his bed and drops down. He whines a bit, but after a few minutes of assessing the situation, the tiny dictator snuggles into his bed and finally falls asleep.
After that, things settle into a somewhat predictable rhythm. Willow’s working from home now, her office a corner of the living room. Chewy’s at her feet, acting as her personal furry foot warmer. He still gets her attention during the day, and I get to spend the entire night with her wrapped in my arms.
It only took Chewy a few nights to realize his lavish dog bed is actually quite comfortable. He stopped holding a grudge against me for kicking him out and has become my little shadow again when I’m home.
Early Saturday morning, Willow's already halfway through a stack of pancakes, looking ridiculously happy with the fluffy little shit draped across her foot. He glances over and gives me a shit-eating look while his tail thumps a steady beat against the floorboards. I wouldn't trade mornings like this for anything.
"So…" I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter. "What would you like to do today?"
Willow looks up, her eyes sparkling. "I was thinking… we could take Chewy for a walk on the trails. I’m hoping a little fresh air and exercise will help him."
The trails at the Silver Spoon Falls wind down behind the falls and around the large lake. I'm not entirely sure how well a pampered puffball will handle it, but the excited look on my spitfire’s face makes saying no impossible.
"Sounds great," I say, my voice low, a promise rumbling beneath the words. I'm already thinking about the way I'll be handling her later, far from the judging gaze of even the cutest little dog.
The trails feature varying terrain. Along the lake, there are relatively flat, easy paths that flow into the more rugged, uphill climbs leading to the waterfall overlook.
Chewy behaves himself, for a while. He trots along, tail wagging, nose twitching, exploring every goddamn pebble along the trail.
We push further, deeper down the trail, and Chewy suddenly decides he's had enough.
He stops dead, stretches like a goddamn cat, and plops down in the middle of the trail, refusing to budge. When the little shit digs his heels in, he’s unmovable.
Willow tries sweet-talking him. I try the "alpha male stare," the one that usually works wonders. We offer treats and praise. But nothing works. Chewy's a goddamn immovable object. Since we’re only a couple miles from the truck, carrying the nine-pound little shit won’t be a big deal.
“He’s definitely… stubborn,” Willow says, fighting back a laugh.
Stubborn is a polite word. The little prick's a champion-level pain in my ass.
I let out a long, low sigh. “I guess he wins this round,” I grumble, scooping him into my arms. “I’ll carry his royal fuzz bucket back to the truck.”
As we make our way back down the trails, Willow laughs at the sight of the little drama queen playing this shit up. I’m not sure who I want to throttle more, my amused spitfire or the spoiled little shit.
Chewy nestles against my shoulder, the picture of smug contentment. He’s radiating an aura of self-satisfied smugness. He lets out a contented sigh, snuggling closer while staring up at me like I’m his peasant. I know exactly why he’s doing this, too. Payback for me evicting him from our bed.
“You know,” I mutter, my voice strained more from annoyance that he got one over on me than exertion, “I’ll let him get away with it this time, but next time, the little shit is walking.”
Willow just laughs that bright, clear sound that cuts through the quiet of the woods. “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” she says, her words laced with amusement .
We’re about halfway back when Chewy decides to pull his usual charming act. He leans over and slowly licks my hand like we’re the best of friends. I look down at him, my gaze softening despite my simmering annoyance at carrying him. He looks up at me, his big brown eyes filled with an almost innocent sincerity. The little furball has a way of pulling out his most adorable expressions at precisely the moments they're most effective.
“You little suck-up,” I mutter, my voice softening considerably. The words are tinged with affection.
“He knows how to work you, that’s for sure.” Willow laughs, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “And he knows you adore him.”
I don’t deny it. The little fluffball has wormed his way into my heart. He's become a permanent fixture—an annoying, sometimes infuriating, but ultimately beloved fixture—in my life.
I smirk, pulling her close, our bodies pressed together. I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear. "I do. Almost as much as I love you," I whisper, my voice low and dangerous. My arms might be a little tired, but my cock is anything but.
“I love you, too.” She snuggles against my side as we walk up to the truck.