2. Sadie
2
SADIE
I must be dreaming. Why else would Captain America—or the actor who plays him on screen—be kissing his way along my bare shoulder?
They’re soft kisses, a featherlight whisper against my skin. As dreams go, I’ll take this over the usual scenario of showing up for my high school prom wearing only a bra and panties.
High-waisted granny panties, no less. White. Always plain, boring white, just like real life.
I shiver as dream Cap nibbles the sensitive spot at the crook of my neck, and then…ew…why does his breath smell like ham?
“Stop, Max. Down. Blech.”
Sputtering, I scramble to sit and shove away my ten-year-old rescue mutt. All thoughts of hottie Chris Evans vanish as I wipe away the residual dog drool coating my chin.
“Sweet Maxie, I set the alarm for a reason.”
Max wags his bushy tail, jumps off the bed and then back up again, wildly excited to start another day.
I give his scruffy ears a scratch. “Okay, okay. Gotta drain the main vein? I get it, buddy.”
I flip off the covers, pick up my phone, and shove my feet into the fuzzy slippers beside the bed. Grabbing a flannel shirt from the hook on the closet door, I follow Max downstairs.
There are three dogs boarding with me at the moment and a couple more arriving for daycare this morning. I let Max out into the fenced backyard before opening the other crates. One of the perks of being canine master of the house is first dibs on the bush you pick to hydrate each morning.
First out of the boarders is Princess, a five-month old corgi who is energetic, curious and spoiled rotten by her high-strung owner. She bounds into the yard and immediately starts trying to herd Max, who is infinitely patient with her. Next up is Lilly, a three-year-old goldendoodle. She blinks her long eyelashes as I release her from her kennel, while Stoop, the elderly dachshund in the fake wood crate that also serves as an end table, waits patiently.
“Did anyone else have sweet dreams?” I ask the dogs as they greet me before trotting to the patio door. Mornings mean serious potty business around here.
Neither dog answers, not that I expect them to. I might spend more of my life with four-legged creatures than two, but I understand they can’t talk back.
It doesn’t stop me from continuing my one-sided conversation. I pour a glass of water, hit the brew button on the coffee maker I filled last night, and stroll into the backyard.
“Your mommy’s coming home today,” I tell Lilly, who’s sniffing one of the hardy shrubs I planted along the fence line.
I’ve given up on a golf-course-worthy lawn. Operating a dog boarding operation out of my house for the past ten years has proven that no amount of water and love can prevail over a steady onslaught of canine acid.
My yard is tidy-ish with a landscape plan that includes swaths of mulch, large boulders, and grasses native to Colorado. Even without the dog traffic, the Rocky Mountain foothills aren’t a hospitable growing climate for anything other than the most rugged plants and flowers. I only bother with flowers on the front porch, and they have to be drought tolerant.
I love my hometown of Skylark, Colorado, but choose to leave the business of bountiful baskets of blooms to the cute storefronts downtown. My clients are more concerned with sniffing and digging holes than admiring my non-existent gardening prowess.
After gulping down a few swigs of water, I button up the flannel. The end of May in Colorado means cool early mornings before the bright sun warms to another glorious day.
My phone buzzes, and I smile at the text from my sister.
Piper: How’s my Maxie this morning?
Me: picture of Max rolling on his back in a pile of who knows what.
Me: Missing you as always.
Piper: I found the perfect ring bearer pillow for him.
Piper: A screenshot of a puffy silk saddle
Me: He’ll love it.
“You’ll love it, right, Max?”
The dog gives me a dubious look.
“Yeah, humiliating,” I agree, although I’ll never say that to my sister. Piper is thrilled to have our beloved dog participate in her upcoming nuptials, and I won’t put a damper on her excitement.
There’s nothing I won’t do for my half-sister. My mom and I were a dynamic duo for the first ten years of my life, and I thought that was all I needed. Then came Piper, the result of an unexpected pregnancy from a short and disastrous attempt at dating by our perpetually single mom.
I’d been horrified at the thought of a baby sister, but from the moment Mom placed the wriggling bundle into my arms, it was instant love and devotion. Piper became the piece of my heart I hadn’t known was missing. She’s also the reason I chose to forgo the unicorn of scholarships—a full-ride to a private university in California—when the time came for me to go to college.
Instead, I took out loans and worked evenings to put myself through the pre-vet program at the state university an hour away from Skylark so I could stay close to Mom and Piper.
I gave up even more, everything really, when a drunk driver careening down the wrong side of the highway on a snowy night stole Mom from us.
I’d been one semester away from graduating and had already been accepted to the veterinary school at a top-rated program in Texas. But my life dreams—and the sorrow of losing my mother—didn’t seem to compare to Piper’s overwhelming grief. I moved into Mom’s house, which a meager life insurance policy had blessedly paid off, and became guardian to my younger sister.
For weeks, I worried about how I’d pay the bills and keep my twelve-year-old sister from disappearing into her despair. Then a middle-aged neighbor knocked on the door and asked if I’d do her the massive favor of dog-sitting while she tried to reignite the spark in her marriage with an erotic weekend getaway. A cringey TMI tidbit, but I agreed. The woman’s goofy black lab galloped into the house, whacked everything off the coffee table with his wild tail, and made Piper smile for the first time since our mother’s accident.
The dog was a new lease—or leash, as it went—on life for us. Sadie Hart’s House of Dog was born.
At the time, I hadn’t planned to add a permanent dog to our family of two. I was plenty busy growing the business through word of mouth and daily pack walks through the neighborhoods of our bustling small town. As often happens with meant-to-be connections, Max found us. He was a three-month-old ball of fluff abandoned on the playground and scooped up by my sorrowful sister, who needed him as much as he needed her.
Even though Piper transitioned through her grief and her sunny personality returned, Max’s devotion never wavered. He might be my dog at this point, but his heart belongs to Piper. Just like mine.
In a few weeks, Piper will be starting a new chapter with my childhood crush. Not on purpose, of course. And thinking too much about how my sister and the guy I pined after for a humiliating number of years came to be a couple makes my heart ache for what I might never have. But Max and I will show up for the wedding weekend in the mountains with our best foot—and paw—forward.
Even if I wind up grinding my molars to tiny nubs trying to keep a carefree smile on my face while ignoring the pitying looks and gentle snubs from my sister’s cliquey friends and Bradley Carlson’s snobbish family.
Even if my date for the weekend wakes himself up at night with the potency of his own dog farts.
Because that’s the kind of loyal I am.
“No, no, no!” I jab my fist toward the bluebird sky in protest. All three dogs freeze. “Sorry, guys. Not you. No, me.”
I pace through the yard, watching where I’m going so I don’t step in any random piles of poo. “Sadie Hart isn’t loyal like a dog,” I tell my rapt audience. “I don’t sit or stay. No fleas. I sure can’t reach around to lick my private bits.”
A choked laugh reverberates from the other side of the privacy fence, and my heart plummets to my toes right along with my self-respect.
What in the world is my newish next-door neighbor, the mysterious specter of a man who moved in a few weeks ago, doing in his backyard?
The guy never leaves the house. And based on the number of boxes deposited on his porch by the UPS drivers each day, I suspect he’s an agoraphobe with a compulsive shopping disorder.
It isn’t like I’ve been spying, but that giant brown truck pulling to a squeaky-braked stop at the curb multiple times a day sets my posse of dogs into a frenzy. Every single time.
Yet I haven’t met the man or even caught sight of his face. On occasion, I’ve seen him pull out in a massive SUV with blacked-out windows, but no one in our cul-de-sac seems to know much about him.
The close-knit community of Skylark, Colorado doesn’t take kindly to suspicious behavior, and being antisocial tops that list.
Of all the times for the new guy to be outside.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” I shout, pretending my face isn’t flaming with embarrassment.
“Your voice probably carried to the other side of the street,” he calls back. “Out of curiosity, what would happen if you could reach those bits?”
I gasp. “Rude.”
Lilly barks as if to let me know she’s got my back.
The answering chuckle from the other side of the fence is deep and a bit gravelly. Definitely not the reason for the unexpected goosebumps that prick my skin.
I glance up to see the top of a thick mop of sandy brown hair—impressive since the fence is six feet tall—moving closer.
Oh, hell, no. I’m not meeting my deranged hoarder neighbor under these circumstances.
“Let’s go,” I say to the dogs and make a dash for my back door.
Stoop is slow on the uptake, blind in one eye, and I trip over his stubby back end as he stops directly in my path. My slipper catches on the edge of a weathered Adirondack chair, and my knees and palms hit the concrete patio.
Go-time for the dogs, who circle like this is the best game they’ve ever played. I can’t help but welcome their exuberance, even if it means when growly neighbor guy peers over the fence, I’ll look like the weirdo dog lady people in town have labeled me for the past decade.
Except, when I manage to stand and turn, the mysterious neighbor has vanished. My eccentricity isn’t enough to keep a potential international super spy, hoarder, or shopaholic interested.
I’m not shocked, although the disappointment that lances my belly is a bit of a surprise. Go figure. I’m suddenly invested in seeing the face that rumbling laugh belongs to, even if he’s laughing at me.