Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
It starts sleeting as soon as I pull up the address my neighbor sent.
I’m huddled under a tree, about to turn tail and head back into my building, when I realize the place Todd’s sister recommended is only a few blocks over, off Logan Street.
I look down at the heels I never changed out of, then glance at the dog.
Lydia assured me he wouldn’t be able to destroy anything from inside the crate, and my apartment didn’t directly suffer this time, but I think she underestimated his ability to destroy my life.
I don’t know how I’ll be able to get to work this week without getting evicted, and I’m not about to sacrifice my career—or my apartment—because of an animal I don’t even want.
It doesn’t look like much from the outside when I find it.
Just a door on a storefront in the middle of the block.
There’s a sign, but it isn’t decorated with bones and paw prints or anything.
Just black-and-white lettering and the profile of a German shepherd.
I’m actually relieved it isn’t overly cutesy.
Lydia’s businesses are one thing. But if this place had been called Pawfect Poochie and decorated with pink poodles or something, I’m not sure I could have convinced myself to go in.
Rufus seems eager to check it out as we approach, nose to the ground, sniffing carefully all the way up to the door. I don’t know if they even take walk-ins, but I need someone to teach this dog not to flip out whenever I leave, so in we go.
Inside the door, we find a retail section full of toys and treats and a small reception desk. Beyond that, on the other side of a low wall, is a vast space that feels like a warehouse. The place must span several storefronts. It’s bigger than I expected.
Rufus’s interest skyrockets as soon as we step inside.
I adjust my grip on the leash, wrapping it around my wrist a few times as he does his sniff-every-corner thing, tail wagging fast like it’s some kind of game.
I can hear voices coming from the warehouse area, but can’t see around the racks of toys and treats at the front of the space.
As we make our way toward the empty desk, however, I spot a group of people on the other side of the wall, standing in a wide circle with dogs on leashes around a man giving some kind of instruction.
I brighten. They must be holding a training class right now.
Everyone is quietly focused on the guy speaking, and since no one’s here in reception, I open the little gate next to the desk and slip through with Rufus to join them.
As soon as it latches behind us, the tiny white dog closest to us breaks away from the circle and starts lunging at the end of its leash, barking hysterically.
The instant this happens, Rufus transforms from curious companion into a hound straight out of hell, flying to the end of the lead, snapping, snarling, and barking.
A number of the other dogs react similarly while their owners struggle for control.
And it’s a damn good thing I have a firm hold on the leash because it takes all my strength to keep him from swooping into the group and devouring every living creature in the room.
“Rufus, no!” I yell, trying to yank him back toward the reception area.
The woman with the little white dog is screeching. Several other people are struggling with their pets. And the trainer from the center of the group, who does not have a dog, comes storming toward me.
“What are you doing?” he snarls. “You can't walk in here with him like that.”
I look up at the voice. The familiar face. The scowl burned into my brain.
No. I don’t deserve this.
Rufus chooses this moment to fling himself to the end of the leash.
And because I’m still wearing the dumb heels I’d put on for my interview and not my practical Hokas, I lose my balance when he yanks me forward—face-planting straight into Drew Forbes’s rock-solid chest. I get a whiff of something like sandalwood as he catches me.
Before he wrenches all three of us through the low gate and back into the waiting area.
“I’ve got him. You can leave now,” he snaps, letting go of my arms.
It takes a second to collect myself once the noise dies down, and when I do, I realize he’s holding Rufus’s leash like he owns him. “Wait, what?”
He glances at his watch. “You lasted about thirty-six hours. Longer than I expected.”
I look around the space, still completely disoriented. “This is where you work?”
“This is my business,” he says sharply.
“Uh, Drew?” A woman with blue hair in her twenties, wearing a shirt that says K9 Academy—just like the one Drew is wearing—breaks away from the group of dogs and owners. “Should I take over the class?”
His expression darkens, and he shakes his head. “I’m done here.”
The next thing I know, he’s turning his back, leading Rufus away from me.
“Hold up. Where are you going?”
He stops at the low gate and just looks at me like he can’t figure out why I’m still here. “Are you waiting for a thank you? For disrupting my class?”
My hands curl into fists. “No. I want to know what you’re doing with him.”
Rufus looks back at me and emits a low whine.
Drew rolls his eyes, then points over my shoulder, speaking to me like I’m a preschooler. “The exit is that way.”
My mouth drops open. “You think I came here to give him to you?”
“Why else would you be here?” he sneers.
I glance at Rufus, still at the end of the leash in Drew’s hands, and admittedly much calmer now. He’s watching me closely, but I can’t argue—he already seems like a different animal than he was a second ago. What did Lydia call Drew? A dog guru?
Clearly he’s better with dogs than he is with people.
I think of the scene I came home to yesterday. My ruined apartment. My couch. It’s hard to think after spending most of the night worrying about poop. And I still haven’t figured out work tomorrow. If I just let Drew have the dog, all of my problems would be solved.
Except something about that bothers me.
Why didn’t Kyle want his dog-whispering brother to have Rufus? Wouldn’t it have made a thousand times more sense for him to choose Drew over me?
“Were you and Kyle even speaking before he died?”
Drew’s perpetual scowl intensifies. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.”
He turns his head and barks an order at the woman wearing the K9 Academy shirt. She looks mildly terrified, but scurries off to take over the class.
“My relationship with my brother is none of your business,” Drew says, so low I almost can’t hear.
I fold my arms. Kyle and Drew had been close when they were kids—that much I knew. But Kyle hardly mentioned his brother when we were in high school. And the fact that Drew declined our wedding invite and then showed up anyway tells me he’s as manipulative as their parents.
“There’s a notarized document with Kyle's signature stating he didn’t want you to have this dog,” I say. “Why?”
“That’s not what it—”
“I asked you a question.”
I would not be even a little shocked if lasers came shooting out of Drew Forbes’s eyes in a moment.
Which is an unfortunate thought because his resemblance to my longtime crush, Clark Kent, is intense.
But that fades away as he steps toward me, speaking in a rumble that sounds nothing like Kyle or Superman.
“That’s also none of your business.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “But I can tell you Kyle would be here with me now, taking care of his own dog, if it wasn’t for you.”
The first time this guy launched that particular assault, I was so unprepared I couldn’t respond. Now, I bristle. “Nice try. I hadn’t even seen Kyle for an entire year before he died.” I narrow my eyes. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Drew’s mouth is a thin line drawn in concrete.
I hold out my hand for the leash. “Seems he liked you slightly less than he even liked me. Now, if you’ll please let me have my dog, I suggest we let the dead rest in peace.”
When he makes no move to hand Rufus over, I snatch the leather out of his hand.
He glowers, but doesn’t stop me.
“You never said why you came in,” he mutters as I head for the door.
“I was looking for a dog trainer,” I say, trying not to lose my balance again as Rufus tugs me.
“From what I can see, you still need one.”
“I doubt we’d be a good fit.” I reach for the door, letting the leash slide down my wrist.
“Stop,” Drew says abruptly. When I turn, he’s coming toward me, stiff and robotic. He grabs the loose leash, and just as I’m about to protest, takes me by the hand.
“What—?”
“You can’t go onto the street like that. If you hold it like this, without too much slack . . .” He loops the leather over my left thumb, then presses both sides of the leash down into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “You’ll have more control.”
He lets go as fast as he stepped in, and I look up into his face, open-mouthed, as the scent of sandalwood reaches me again.
“I . . .” I can’t bring myself to say thanks, so I just nod. “Good to know.”
He seems to realize how close we’re standing because he stiffens and steps back, folding his arms so his biceps strain against his sleeves. “You’ll give up eventually. I’m just ensuring you don’t lose him in the meantime.”