Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Washington Park is surprisingly empty on Friday evenings.
It’s one of the city’s larger green spaces, and during the week, you can hardly walk across the grass without dodging a rogue ball or game of one kind or another.
Usually, there are volleyball nets everywhere, yoga classes, groups of people playing spikeball, families having picnics.
But the whole place is cleared out this evening.
A few joggers and dog walkers pass through, but the crowds and parties are absent, the lawn abandoned.
I suppose everyone is either out at clubs or on dates—maybe touring art galleries on South Santa Fe Drive.
I cringe, remembering my mom’s invitation. I love her, and I’m happy she’s finally doing something for herself, but I’m almost grateful to have an excuse not to go. Art galleries really aren’t my thing—too much small talk and schmoozing.
Lucky for me, I’m on a double date with anxiety and my dog.
Actually, I will not call it that. Not with Drew here.
I adjust the leash in my hand as I make a turn, scanning the path for the umpteenth time before focusing back on Rufus.
“Are you expecting someone?” Drew asks.
I frown. “No, why?”
“You keep looking around like you are.”
My face heats. We’ve been moving Rufus through a single routine for the last twenty minutes.
The same one we’ve been repeating with him all week.
Walking him back and forth between the trees, having him sit, lie down, or walk at our heels.
Drew hardly speaks except to address the dog, so I’ve been lost in my head pretty much since we got here.
Ruminating on some ideas I want to follow up on about Unmatched.
Worrying about what else I might find next time I open my email.
And apparently keeping an unconscious eye out for stray bad guys.
I didn’t expect him to notice.
“Just practicing situational awareness,” I say. “Doubt you’d understand—not really a Y chromosome thing.”
His brows draw together. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then exhales instead. “Why don’t we run him through one more time and call it a night?”
“Thank God,” I mutter under my breath. It has been a grind squeezing Rufus’s training in on top of everything else each day.
Don’t get me wrong, my personal life has devolved into a sad rotation of dog walking, work, YouTube strength training videos, ramen noodles, and Netflix.
But at least I can do most of that from the security of my locked apartment.
This week was a lot, though, and I’ve been looking forward to having a couple of days to myself.
I’ll hunker down tomorrow, touch base with a few contacts I hope will send my research in the right direction, and catch up on a couple of staff articles on local events I promised Randall.
Maybe do some living room Pilates. If she’s feeling up to it, Lydia might want to dog walk with me.
I just really need a couple days where I don’t also have to see Drew Forbes.
We move through all the training motions again, the same way we have all week—him watching as I march between the trees with Rufus at my heel.
Although this time I could swear Drew’s gaze follows me as closely as the dog.
I stop, use the voice and hand signals he’s shown me to have Rufus sit, lie down, and stay.
I walk away, ensuring he doesn’t move, then give him the command to release.
The dog runs to me, wagging his tail when I offer his tug toy like it’s the greatest thing since dry kibble.
Drew nods, looking satisfied. Then he pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at me. “Okay, that’s good. Although I’d like to try something different with him this weekend.”
This weekend.
I blink at him, searching his burly frame for meaning while I try to process his words.
He’s disrupted his endless rotation of chest-hugging Henleys in favor of a light blue button-down today, and the change would almost be funny if his forearms didn’t look so good with the rolled-up sleeves, and if he hadn’t just said what I think he just said.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, did you mean Saturday or Sunday?”
My annoyance must creep onto my face because the corners of his mouth pull down.
“Both,” he says. “Now that we’ve earned Rufus’s trust and he wants to work for us, it’s important to maintain consistency. Though I can do more with him if we go to my facility.”
My fantasies of not having to look into Drew Forbes’s chiseled face for forty-eight hours flit away like a traumatized butterfly.
“Is that really necessary?” I ask.
He has the audacity to look nonplussed. “Rufus is making progress. We don’t want to lose this momentum.”
“He’s not going to notice if we skip one day.”
The man bristles, stepping closer. “Because you want to lock him away in that jail cell of an apartment while you do what?”
“Sorry if I have a life,” I say, even though it feels like a lie. “But I have stuff going on that has nothing to do with pet ownership.”
“Then leave him with me,” he says.
“No.”
“Why?”
I fold my arms, mostly because I don’t have an answer other than I don’t like you. “I don’t need you to be my dog sitter.”
“I didn’t suggest you need me.” He glances at Rufus. “But he does.”
I roll my eyes. “Look, fine. We can meet one day to train him, not both. And I’m not leaving him with you. It’s been a busy week and I—I just have a bunch of work to catch up on.”
“Oh, yeah.” I swear I see his skin prickle. “Saw the article you wrote.”
For a moment, I blink. At no point has my writing about Unmatched intersected with our uneasy training relationship, but here he is dragging them together because why not—the only thing that could make our dynamic more unpleasant would be having to endure his criticism of my work.
He probably wants to unleash some opinion about how men are allowed to cheat if they want.
“Lovely, thanks for being a reader,” I say, trying to shut him down before he starts. “Subscribe to the Observer for more exclusive features.”
“It was well written.” He says this as if it physically pains him to compliment me, and I’m so surprised I almost laugh.
“Yeah, well, have fun debating my content with your girlfriend.”
“My . . . what?” His brows draw together behind his glasses like he doesn’t follow.
I nearly snort, because of course. Why did I ever think this prickly man would have a woman in his life who willingly spends time with him? I turn away, shaking my head, but as I walk to collect my things from under a tree, a strange warm sensation thuds through my chest.
“Never mind,” I snap. “I should go.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder, but when I look back, his jaw moves like he’s chewing on something. Finally, he says, “My parents will be complaining to the Observer . . . I thought you should know.”
Now I’m the one not following. I tilt my head, debating whether to ask what he means—until all at once my brain makes the leap. “Oh. The scholarship article?”
He gives me this look like what else, and I let my hair fall over my face, fumbling with Rufus’s leash.
Maybe because it took me a moment, or because his compliment wasn’t what I thought it was.
Honestly, I had been trying to forget I wrote that piece.
I’d done my assignment, included the correct names and information—though I focused most on Kenyon Riley’s accomplishments and dreams. I’m not surprised the Doctors Forbes were unhappy.
“Well, they can get in line. Most of our mail is from people griping about our coverage,” I say through my teeth. “I think I exercised a great deal of restraint about the award, considering Kyle never wanted to be a doctor.”
“No.” He nods slowly. “That’s what our parents wanted.”
Drew’s voice is surprisingly soft as he says this. I can’t decipher the look on his face, but his words shake loose something I’ve been ruminating on for a while.
“Didn’t you go to med school?” I ask. “Why are you a dog trainer and not a physician?”
The look he gives me could freezer burn a glacier. But when he doesn’t answer, I ball my fists and step toward him.
“What? Is it some paltry posthumous gesture just like your parents’ award?
Is opening the business of Kyle’s dreams supposed to atone for the fact that he’s gone?
” My lip curls. “That’s some self-sacrifice.
Maybe if you’d tried it when he was alive, he’d still be here. Probably running it better than you.”
I stare right at him, hoping he’ll dispute me. I’ve spent the last year simmering in my feelings about Kyle while biting back replies to unwanted opinions on all my writing. I am ready to unleash.
But it’s like watching an iron curtain come down behind his eyes. Drew mutters quietly to Rufus and slips him a treat. Then he collects the few training items scattered around us in the grass.
All I can do is watch, growing more and more annoyed. I want him to grovel, say he’s sorry, beg forgiveness—for both of us losing Kyle.
So I can stop blaming myself.
Instead, he just turns to go, speaking once over his shoulder in a cracked voice.
“I’ll be at K9 Academy tomorrow. Seven p.m.”