Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Lucian
How to Lose a Dog Sitter in Ten Texts
I should’ve seen it coming.
I should have known the moment my phone rang at an ungodly hour—just as I was stretching out in my hotel bed, savoring my last morning in Aspen before heading to the first day of boot camp—that this day was about to go to absolute shit.
And sure enough, when I swipe to answer, there’s panic on the other end of the line.
Not from a coach.
Not from Jacob, who’s still mad at me for “ruining” my public image with home renovation thirst traps.
No.
It’s from my dog sitter.
“I can’t do it,” Riley blurts, her voice breaking.
“I thought I could, but I—Lucian, I can’t.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice, except those two weeks are actually two minutes.”
“Riley—”
“I gotta go. I’m so sorry. But she—she’s intense. I’m not cut out for this,” she rushes out.
“Like, the entire summer I’ve been chill. My anxiety? Gone. And yesterday? I broke out in hives. Hives, Lucian. Your dog is killing me, and I can’t afford to die this young.”
And then she hangs up.
I stare at my phone like it just betrayed me.
What the actual fuck just happened?
One second, I had a reliable dog sitter.
The next? Riley’s bolting like Sarah is Cujo and not a seventy-pound ball of hyperactive love.
I scrub a hand down my face, already bracing for disaster.
Sarah is alone. Alone.
Probably looking at the door, waiting for a walk, or worse—plotting her escape.
Now my entire preseason schedule is about to go up in flames because I have exactly zero minutes in my day to deal with this shit.
I’ll give her a raise, beg her .
. . I press call. I’m sent to voicemail.
I text: Riley. What do you mean hives?
You’re quitting? You’re literally walking a dog, not fighting off a swarm of bees.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand.
Two hours until I need to be at practice and less to find a dog sitter in such a last minute.
I have no backup plan.
Sarah isn’t just a dog—she’s my dog.
My pain-in-the-ass, fence-jumping, sock-stealing, drama queen of a best friend.
Now, I have to figure out what the hell to do with her before my coach decides I need a leash too.
Does Sarah get a little lost sometimes?
Sure. But she always finds her way home.
But is Sarah—my angel, my literal perfect specimen of a dog—intense?
Impossible.
She’s friendly.
She’s affectionate.
She’s an award-winning dog—if such awards existed outside of fancy-ass show breeds.
No, the issue isn’t that my dog sitter just quit.
The issue is that Sarah is in Pennsylvania, and I’m in Colorado for the conditioning phase of training camp.
A week in high altitude.
Too many days of grueling, lung-burning, body-destroying workouts aimed at getting me into peak form ahead of preseason.
Two days where I’m supposed to fine-tune my workouts, mentally prepare for the season, and—most importantly—not worry about whether my dog has emotionally blackmailed yet another sitter into quitting.
The sound of my messages blowing up derails my thoughts.
Riley has sent eight texts in under a minute.
Riley: Sarah got us kicked from the coffee shop
Riley: She’s banned.
Riley: She cried at the dog park when another dog took the ball I threw first.
Riley: Like, full dramatic whimpering.
Riley: Also, she refused to walk home.
Sat on the sidewalk and just .
. . REFUSED.
Riley: People thought I stole her while I was carrying her.
Riley: She slept on my chest last night and growled when I tried to move.
Riley: She’s your problem now.
Riley: GOOD LUCK.
I stare at the screen.
Sarah, my dog. My fully grown, ridiculously expensive Vizsla, who is supposed to embody athleticism and loyalty, is, it seems, a melodramatic diva with separation anxiety issues.
I text back :
You carried her home?
Riley: I HAD NO CHOICE.
She went full deadweight.
Like, boneless. People were recording me.
I’m on social media, stealing your dog.
Riley: I’ll probably sue for emotional distress.
You have 1 hour to find someone else to take care of her.
I groan. Of course, she’s on social media.
I check the time again.
I need a solution. Right now.
Because if Sarah went this feral over Riley?
I’m officially fucked.
I exhale slowly and drop my head back against the pillow.
Perfect.
This is just perfect.
Nothing says elite athlete preparing for the season like having to emergency airlift his overly dramatic, emotionally manipulative dog across the country.
There are a few simple options to fix this pronto.
And I know exactly who I have to call.
I groan, running a hand through my hair before calling the one person who should have my back.
Greyson answers on the second ring.
“Absolutely not.”
I blink at my phone.
“Excuse me?”
Greyson—my baby brother, my should-be-loyal younger sibling—doesn’t hesitate before repeating, “Nope. Not my problem.”
I suck in a breath, gripping my phone like it personally wronged me.
“You don’t even know why I’m calling you.”
“The only reason you call me is so I’ll take care of your dog. The answer is: No. N. O.”
I grind my teeth.
“You love Sarah.”
“Sure do.”
“She loves you.”
“She loves anyone who gives her food and belly rubs.”
“So, what’s the issue?” I try to sound friendly, but it comes out like a demand.
“Just take her for the next week?—”
“Sure, let me just pause my whole life because Luc thinks his dog is important.” He chuckles.
He fucking laughs.
Like my entire existence isn’t falling apart.
“You ignored me all of offseason,” he says, feigning hurt.
“Now you suddenly remember I exist?”
I scrub a hand down my face.
“I was busy.”
“Mmm. Too busy for your baby brother, but now that you’re desperate, I get a phone call?”
“I will literally wire you an obscene amount of money,” I tell him flatly.
“Tempting,” he muses, “but still no.”
I growl.
“Fine. I’ll remember this when you need a favor.”
“Oh, please,” he scoffs.
“The only person who ever needs a favor is you, and it’s always about taking care of your mutt.”
I scowl.
“She’s a princess, not a mutt.”
“Well, find someone else to handle her. I did enough this last weekend when I had to track down the horses she let loose.”
I roll my eyes.
“You don’t understand Sarah. It’s not like she’s just letting them go.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They’re her pack, Grey. She wants to play with them, but they just don’t get it and end up galloping around the estate.”
Greyson groans.
“I hope that when you have kids, you don’t enable them the same way you do your dog.”
“She’s your niece, not just a dog.”
“Are we done here?”
I grit my teeth.
“Fine. But I’ll keep this in mind for the next time you need something.”
“I hope Sarah finds a new home where she’s properly appreciated. I’ll be thinking of her when you come crawling back,” he says, before ending the call.
Well.
I have one option left.
However, I shouldn’t call her.
I should just . . . figure something else out.
But I’m running out of options.
And if there’s one person on this planet who can match Sarah’s sheer willpower?
It’s Olivia.
Olivia, who I swore to ignore for the rest of my natural life because we had what I like to call a too fucking vulnerable moment.
I told her things about me almost no one knows.
Things I don’t want anyone to know.
And though I have a reasonable explanation for why I shouldn’t call .
. . I have to call her because she’s the only person I can trust with Sarah outside my family.
Or Riley.
But Riley just rage-quit accusing my princess of terrible things.
She wouldn’t give anyone hives.
I scroll through my contacts, and hover over her name.
I sigh because I already know .
. . I’m fucked.
The second she answers, I hear the suspicion in her voice.
“What do you want?”
I grin, leaning back against my pillows.
“Liv, that’s not how you greet your favorite neighbor.”
“You’re not my favorite anything,” she says dryly.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I have a proposition.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You didn’t even let me?—”
“No.”
I chuckle.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“Does it involve you somehow making my life more complicated?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “Lucian.”
I sigh.
“Sarah needs a puppysitter. The person I left her with just quit, and I have one hour to find someone. I don’t even know if she stayed to wait for anyone to come and take my girl.”
Silence.
I brace myself.
And then .
. . laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Nope.
This is full-bodied, victorious, downright evil laughter.
“You’re calling me with a tone that makes me think you’re about to ask for one of my kidneys and . . .” She laughs again.
I roll my eyes. “Glad you find my suffering funny.”
“Oh, I do,” she says, still laughing.
“So much.”
I rub my temple.
“Olivia?—”
“No, no,” she cuts me off, still cackling like a villain.
“I just love that you—Lucian Crawford, Mr. I Always Win—are finally losing.”
I scowl.
“I’m not losing.”
“Oh?” she muses.
“Because it kind of sounds like you’re begging me to adopt your dog.”
I grit my teeth.
“It’s not begging. And I’m definitely not giving you my dog.”
“It’s a little begging.”
“Liv.”
She hums, drawing this out like she’s enjoying every single second of my misery.
“I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”
I smirk.
“My eternal gratitude?”
“Ha. Try again.”
“A dinner?”
“Getting warmer.”
I pause, then throw it out there just to fuck with her.
“A date?”
She sputters.
“A DATE?”
I grin. “You heard me.”
“You’re trying to convince me to do something for you with a date?” She laughs again, and I can’t tell if she’s horrified or entirely too entertained.
“I’m glad you’re laughing at my disgrace.”
“This is so funny,” she states like she’s taking notes for later.
“So . . . how much does it pay to take care of the mighty pup?”
I arch a brow.
“So you’re considering it.”
A pause.
Then . . . “Maybe?” That sounds like music in my ears.
“If . . . and this is a big if, though. If I do agree, I’ll need a signed contract, plus weekly foot massages, and, oh, maybe your left kidney.”
Okay, she’s considering it.
That’s good. But soon I realized that perhaps—perhaps—I’m willingly, too willingly, entering another game I shouldn’t be playing.
“I’ll pay you the same amount I’m paying my dog sitter,” I offer, as this is my only option no matter what.
There’s a long pause.
Then, begrudgingly, “Fine. I’ll assume custody of Sarah.”
I pump my fist but then correct her, “No. No. It’s not custody. You’re puppysitting.”
“Semantics, but . . .”
“But?”
“If she acts like a menace, I’ll charge you double,” she warns me.
“Sarah? A menace?” I scoff.
“Impossible.”
She snorts.
“Then I suppose you won’t mind if I send you hourly updates on every single dramatic thing she does.”
My grin widens.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmur.
“I’m counting on it—open communication. I want this co-parenting to work like a well-oiled machine.”
Maybe I should consider this a win, right?
I can find a way to use this to my advantage somehow.
I’m not sure how, but I will.