4. Isaac
CHAPTER 4
ISAAC
I wake to the acrid stench of destruction. My eyes snap open, and the sight that greets me is nothing short of a war zone. Baxter, my inheritance in canine form, has turned the living room into his personal battlefield.
The couch, once a pristine piece of designer furniture, now lies in tatters, its innards spilling out like the aftermath of a plush massacre. And there, nestled among the chaos, is a pile of dog poop.
“Damn it, Baxter,” I mutter, but the fury brewing inside me isn’t solely reserved for the dog.
It’s my father’s last laugh from beyond the grave. And how often do dogs even need to go out, anyway? I realize I have no clue, and the magnitude of my ignorance presses down on me. I’m as much to blame for this situation as my dad is.
With a sigh, I clean up the mess. Baxter sits there and watches, panting, not showing one bit of remorse.
“That couch was custom-made,” I tell him.
He barks and launches himself at me, paws landing on my shoulders. I push him off before he scratches my face.
After feeding us both a quick breakfast, I clip his leash to his collar. “Come on, you beast.”
The car ride to work isn’t any easier than the car ride home was. It’s not until I see another dog hanging its head out a window that I remember that’s something dogs like.
“There you go.” I roll the passenger’s window halfway down for him, and he shoves his head out of it. For the rest of the ride, he manages to stay out of my life. It’s a win. A small one, but a win nonetheless.
“Hey, Baxter.” The security guard greets him with a pat on the head, seeming genuinely happy to see the fluffy monster. “Morning, Mr. Lennox.”
“Morning,” I say, wondering if he’s seeing the same dog I am. How can anyone get along with this animal?
Baxter gets more and more excited the closer we get to my office. He doesn’t walk so much as he careens, his size a liability I hadn’t considered until now.
“Easy, boy.” I do my best to get him under control by tugging on the leash, but not only is he strong; he’s unpredictable.
He dives under the first desk he sees, and I hear the unmistakable sound of disconnecting cables. Monitors flicker and die, and the collective groan of my team fills the space.
“Sorry!” I call out, my face flushing with embarrassment.
This wasn’t how my father did it. Even though he brought Baxter to his office every day, you’d hardly know the dog was there. He usually chilled in his bed or gnawed on a bone.
My dad, as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, had an aura that even animals seemed to respect. Now here I am, chasing after a dog who’s systematically dismantling my credibility.
“Want some help?” Oliver, one of my team members, asks, his concern laced with a hint of amusement.
“Fine, just fine,” I lie through gritted teeth, diving under the desk to retrieve Baxter.
He looks up at me, tongue lolling out, and for a moment I wonder if he’s doing this on purpose. To annoy me, to challenge me, to remind me that I’m not the man my father was.
“Baxter!” It’s Carol calling, and the dog listens, going right to her.
She rewards him with one of the treats she keeps in her desk before handing him a fresh bone. Thrilled, he settles down with it between his paws and starts chewing away.
“I have someone for you to call,” Carol says, turning to me.
“Who?” I mutter, raking my fingers through my hair, realizing I haven’t looked in a mirror once this morning.
Did I even brush my teeth? I don’t know. All I remember is Baxter. Cleaning up after Baxter. Feeding Baxter. Yelling at Baxter.
“Emily. She’s a dog trainer — some say whisperer,” Carol explains, pressing the paper into my hand. “She worked miracles with my mother’s terrier — a real terror before Emily stepped in.”
“Sounds too good to be true.” Skepticism is my knee-jerk reaction, a shield against hope that can so easily morph into disappointment. But desperation has a way of wearing down even the thickest armor, and so I take the number.
Alone at my desk, Baxter still working on his bone next to Carol, I dial the number. Best to get this out of the way so I can get to work. The phone rings, once, twice, then a voice on the other end, light and airy, answers.
“This is Emily.”
“Hi, Emily, I’m Isaac. Isaac Lennox. I have a… situation with a dog,” I start, choking on the understatement. “Baxter. He’s a bit of a handful. Carol, my assistant, said you might be able to help. You worked with her mom’s terrier.”
There’s a short pause, and I wonder if it’s because of my name. Lennox Realty is a worldwide company, with our headquarters here in Portland. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who has never heard of us.
“I’d love to help,” she says. “How about the dog park on Fifth around four this afternoon? No obligations. We’ll just see what we’re dealing with and go from there.”
Straight to the point. I like it. Even more than I like her musical voice.
“Four works. Thank you,” I reply, a flicker of relief igniting within me.
“Great. See you then, Isaac.” Her voice is warm, reassuring, and I allow myself a sliver of hope that maybe this will be the turning point.
“See you,” I echo, ending the call.
I stare at the wall, still thinking about her voice. She’s probably used to calming more than just unruly dogs with that tone.
Curiosity piques, and without much thought, I find myself typing her name into the search bar. LinkedIn profiles load, a digital procession of faces, until hers appears. It’s like a punch of reality, or maybe beauty — she’s gorgeous. About thirty, if I had to guess, with black hair that falls in waves over petite shoulders and skin like porcelain. Her eyes, even in the pixelated image, hold galaxies of brown, deep and enigmatic.
A professional connection — that’s all this is, I remind myself sternly. Today’s meeting isn’t about chatting up a pretty girl. It’s about Baxter, about regaining some semblance of order in the chaos he brings — chaos I’m not equipped to handle alone.
I’m supposed to lead, to know what I’m doing, but every chewed cable and misplaced dog poop is a reminder of how far from this company’s legacy I’ve strayed.
I don’t have time to pursue women anyway, no matter how intriguing they seem. There’s too much at stake, too many eyes on me, waiting for me to slip.
And yet, there’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like to meet someone who isn’t part of this gilded world, someone who doesn’t see me just as the heir to an American throne.
That’s always been the problem when I do date. Women see dollar signs, social connections, photos with me that they can use to boost their visibility online.
Getting a hold of myself, I close the browser tab before I’m tempted to look at anything else. I jot down the meeting details on a sticky note, pressing it onto the edge of my monitor — Four p.m., dog park on Fifth.
With a deep breath, I turn back to the documents that need to be read, the endless decisions that need to be made, the silent weight of expectation. There’s work to be done, and at the end of the day that’s all that matters.