12. The Accidental Innuendo
THE ACCIDENTAL INNUENDO
CHLOE
An ironic print of dogs lounging on beach chairs with their legs crossed. A quirky painting of a mutt sporting a Gatsby-style suit. A peaceful image of a Golden Retriever raising his snout toward the sun.
The walls in my home are covered in dog art acquired from thrift shops over the years.
If I were training local mutts, they’d be perfect. I’d liberate these from my walls and bring them into Chloe’s Paw-sitive Dog Training to decorate. But I need to look the part for celebrity mutts. And that calls for a different vibe.
I spent most of last night with my top intelligence officer in the dog training business—also known as Google—scouring photos of training spaces in Los Angeles, Santa Monica, Hollywood, Bel Air.
The overwhelming evidence points to two must-have weapons when it comes to dog trainer decor: pink and white.
Since Veronica’s besties are coming in next week for their lessons, that means I need to decorate the space today.
I could ask Sawyer’s permission. He is the owner, and technically, the lease says improvements need to be approved by the landlord.
He seems like a bit of a stickler, the kind of guy who’d want to review every clause, dot every i and cross every t—probably a Capricorn with his rules and discipline and triathloning.
Not sure I have the time for that kind of scrutiny.
But he was also a supreme dickface yesterday, and if I know anything about men who say they’re sorry, it’s that you’ve got a good twenty-four hours to use their guilt to your advantage.
And speaking of advantages…Did I catch him distracted by my chest yesterday?
I hate to do this (I totally don’t), but sometimes you need to play to your strengths.
I pull on a white lacy bra (studies show basic white lace distracts men the most), a white T-shirt with the neckline cut to highlight the slope of my shoulder, and a pair of purple leggings.
If he happens to be discombobulated by the shape of my ass—well, that’s on him.
All’s fair in love and in sharing a workspace with your one-night stand turned landlord-ish co-worker you’re never sleeping with again.
There’s one more element to this plan: Captain.
He’s the most lovable Shepherd mix in existence. If anyone can soften a grump, it’s my guy.
After our morning walk, I open the door to the backseat of my car, and Captain hops in, flopping down on his dog bed. I scratch behind his ears and kiss his head. “Let’s do this, buddy.”
He pants. That’s a yes.
With a prayer to the goddesses of temperamental cars, I turn the key in Roxie’s ignition and sing the chorus of “All That Jazz” from Chicago to coax her on.
It works. I swing by Josiah’s Hardware and hop out with my boy.
I grab a few cans of nontoxic paint, as well as supplies, and stop to pet Josiah’s cat Sheldon, who Captain ignores since he’s unfazed by felines. I check out and head straight to work.
Amazingly, Roxie survives the journey. I pat her hood. “Keep it up, girl, and I’ll get you fixed real soon. Promise.”
I swear she gives a grateful sigh.
I head to the door of Dog Tails with my paint cans, a canvas bag full of brushes, a roller and a tray, my dog, and a huge smile. But before I open it, I turn to Captain. “Stay,” I say, holding up a stop-sign hand, a paint can dangling on my wrist.
He parks his butt, tail still wagging. “Good boy,” I say, then tug open the door.
Behind the counter, dogs tussle and collars jingle.
The sound of water patters in the back room.
One of the groomers must be here. I bet that’s Levi, since he’s a morning guy.
Zuri told me yesterday that Sawyer had re-hired pretty much everyone who had previously worked here, like Hazel, a college student who’s pre-vet at the local university.
She oversees the dog daycare. There’s another groomer too—Nisha, who also used to work for the prior business.
I don’t hate that—his efforts to keep business flowing to the local economy.
For now, I focus on Sawyer, who’s behind the counter, chatting on the phone.
Sounds like he’s talking to one of the managers since he’s saying something about the update to the reservation system.
He stops to run a hand down his tie. It’s a striking shade of blue, nearly sapphire, and it looks good with his rich, brown eyes.
Not that I’d tell Mister Serious Boss, in his dark slacks and checked shirt, that he looks suit-hot.
Especially with a play area full of dogs wrestling behind him, since dogs make every man look hotter.
He ends the call right as I breeze in with the paint cans. “Good morning, Mr. Dumont,” I call out.
There. That’s business-friendly. Truce-like.
When Sawyer’s gaze lands on me, his brow knits—maybe at the “mister” part, maybe the paint, maybe the cleavage. “Morning,” he grumbles.
“Aww, did someone not have his coffee yet?” I tease.
He lifts a mug. “Got it from Pick Me Up.”
“Black. No sugar or cream?” I ask innocently.
He shoots me a suspicious look. “Yes.”
I shrug innocently. “I’m either a stalker or very good at reading you.”
He growls. That’s it. Just growls. The grump is strong in him. But I’ve got this.
I hoist up the paint cans and begin step one. Remind him what’s in it for him. “Anyway, remember how I mentioned yesterday I’d need to decorate to get the space ready for the producers?”
“Right,” he says, skeptical.
“I’m painting it today. And it’ll look amazing.”
He frowns. “I’m not sure the lease allows you to make improvements. Like painting.”
Of course he’s a hard-ass.
Step two—compliment him. “Darn. What a great point, and I’m sure you’re right,” I say, then dial up the charm.
“But…it’ll help us both so much, and I bought all the supplies.
You don’t have to pay for a thing. Would you be willing to make a teensy exception this time?
” I ask sweetly, then play my trump card with step three.
I set down the paint cans, head to the door, and yank it open.
“Captain would really appreciate it. He’s your favorite breed—rescue. Captain, come say hi!”
I pat my thigh and call his name, and Captain bounds through the door. “Give Sawyer a kiss,” I say, smacking my lips and pointing to the man behind the counter.
Captain hops up on his back legs and sets his paws on the counter, tail wagging as he waits for a smooch.
And wouldn’t you know it? The hard-ass leans in and gives Captain a light kiss on the snout.
There it is. Step three—use a dog.
“Aren’t you a good boy,” Sawyer murmurs as the faint imprint of a smile coasts across his lips.
I call Captain back down, then tilt my head and let my shirt slope down juuust a little more. Step four—use a distraction.
That gets you to step five faster—seal the deal. “So, you’ll let me paint? I researched celeb dog trainers in LA, and I’m sure this will help us win the business.”
Sawyer takes a beat, seems to consider this, then gives me a grudging, “Sure.”
“Wait a second. Aren’t you going to help her?” Zuri asks, striding around the corner and giving him a pointed look.
Sawyer furrows his brow. “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
She flubs her lips. “Not with painting. I’m too old for that. And besides, Levi and I were just saying you’d probably want to do it.”
He looks baffled. “You thought I’d want to paint? I have to finish my morning calls to the other locations.”
Zuri’s smile is pure calculation. “I can do that for you. I’ll let you know if anything comes up that requires an executive. And of course I can handle the dogs, and Levi’s got the grooming covered.”
Over by the bathtubs, the tattooed guy with an undercut turns away from the Husky he’s shampooing and pumps a fist. “Yay, the boss is going to paint!”
I snort-laugh as Sawyer glances down at his outfit—tailored slacks, a checked button-down, and a tie. “I guess you’re dressed as Mister Serious Boss today,” I say, then whisper, “but it’s okay if you’re not handy.”
And just like that, he’s undoing his tie, and striding around the counter to help.
Score one for the stalker. Bonus points for the employees knocking the boss down a peg.
* * *
“Funny, I didn’t think you’d be good at this,” I say after Sawyer finishes rolling the last stripe of pink on the east-facing wall. He’s been in here four hours with me, prepping, painting, and pretending not to check me out. Or maybe that’s just what I’ve been doing with him.
He shoots me a look. “And why’s that?”
“Oh, because you seem like someone who prefers the efficiency of hiring out for manual labor rather than rolling up your sleeves. Major upper-management vibes,” I remark.
“Guess you’re wrong. These sleeves are rolled up.
” He nods to the cuffs, and damn, that’s stupidly attractive too.
Because his forearms are on display. He unknotted his tie as well, and tossed it behind the counter at Dog Tails.
And yes, he looked unfairly hot doing it.
But the best way to deal with all this infuriating attraction to a man who once thought I was stalking him is to ignore it completely.
I glance away so it’s not obvious I’m into forearms. “I’m just saying—I’m shocked.”
“Be prepared to be more shocked then. Because I am all kinds of capable,” he says as he puts the roller down.
With a small angled brush I fill in around the trim, glancing in the window to catch sight of Captain playing rope toy tug-of-war with a Chihuahua.
“Pretty sure you’re the only person who paints in a nice shirt,” I say, eyeing his checked button-down.
He gestures triumphantly toward the shirt he’s wearing. “Proof I’m handy. I didn’t get paint on it.”
“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say, waggling the paintbrush.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, we’re doing that?”
I step closer, even though I’m not in getting-paint-on-him territory. “Maybe. You afraid?”
“Do I look scared?”
“A little,” I taunt, inching closer, maybe a foot away now. I brandish the brush again.