7. Isaac
CHAPTER 7
ISAAC
A nother morning. Another war zone.
I don’t even know what to be angry about first. There’s the gnawed windowsill, splinters of wood strewn across the polished floor like the aftermath of a tiny, localized storm. Then there’s my once-favorite pair of leather shoes, now marked with a stain that reeks of betrayal.
“Damn it, Baxter,” I mutter.
He has his toys! Why can’t he chew on them instead of everything that matters to me?
“Why?” I ask the dog.
In response, he knocks over a stool in the kitchen, freaks out at the sound, backs up, hits his rump against a side table, consequently turning that over as well. I roll my eyes.
“You would calm down for Emily, wouldn’t you?” I say. “Well, good news. She’s on her way here now.”
Emily. She handled Baxter with such ease yesterday, her voice and touch gentle yet firm. And those eyes, bright with intelligence and warmth… I shake my head, trying to scatter the image.
But then there’s a knock at the door, three raps that sound like hope, and my pulse quickens. That must be her — I already told the doorman to expect her and let her up.
Smoothing my hair, I open the door and there she stands. Even though she’s only one person, her presence fills the space, pushing out the shadows that linger in every corner. She smiles, and suddenly, the air is sweeter, the light is brighter.
“Good morning,” she says in that voice that washes away every worry that I thought I owned.
“Morning, Emily,” I reply, stepping aside to let her in.
I catch myself lingering a moment too long on the way her jeans conform to her curves, the way her shiny hair hangs down her back. For someone who’s always prided himself on self-control, I’m embarrassingly aware of how hard it is to maintain it around her.
Baxter bounds forward, his tail a furious pendulum, exuberance personified as he reaches Emily. She laughs and bends to greet him with a scratch of his ears.
“Hey there, troublemaker.”
Watching them, a kernel of hope takes root within me. If anyone can turn this unruly beast into a semblance of a civilized companion, it’s her. Carol did me a solid by giving me Emily’s number. I’ll have to remember that when I’m writing holiday bonuses.
I clear my throat, which feels oddly thick. “I really appreciate you spending so much time on training this week.”
“Of course.” She straightens up from petting Baxter. “Are you ready to get started?”
“Yes.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “I’ll just be in my office.” I nod at the door to my home office, on the other side of the living room.
Her eyebrows rise, and instantly I know I’ve said something wrong.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“It’s not just about training him,” she says gently. “You need to be involved too. Dogs and their owners need to learn together.”
A flush of irritation warms my neck. The implication that I am part of the problem prickles at my ego.
“I’m not the one who needs to learn,” I say. “It’s him.”
“Baxter can listen to me all night and day, but what happens once I’m gone?” she presses. “He needs to know that you’re the one in charge, and he needs to know that he can trust you. Count on you.”
I look down at the slobbering beast. Count on me? No way does this animal want any sort of bond with me. Based on the way he’s half-destroyed my home, he dislikes me even more than I do him.
“Fine,” I say, the word clipped and reluctant.
It’s not as if I have a choice. The terms are clear: care for Baxter, take over Lennox Realty. And I can’t focus on work when Baxter is taking all my time and energy. So, here I am.
“Good.” She nods with approval and turns her attention to Baxter, who is already attempting to scale her like a mountain. She steps back each time he jumps, denying him the foothold he seeks.
“Ah-ah, Baxter. Down,” she instructs, her voice firm but calm.
Every rejection from Emily teaches him restraint, and when his paws finally stay planted on the ground, she rewards him with a treat. A simple lesson in boundaries, yet it works.
“Your turn,” she prompts, handing me the bag of treats.
I kneel before Baxter, assuming that if we’re eye to eye it will make this easier.
“You stand,” Emily says. “So he remembers that you’re in charge.”
“I won’t say I dislike that,” I mutter, standing.
She doesn’t react, and I wonder if I’ve said something to offend her. Or maybe I’m too in my head when she’s around.
“Sit,” I command Baxter, fumbling with the unfamiliar use of authority — at least with an animal.
Baxter stares up at me, those brown eyes wide and questioning. For a moment, there’s a stillness, a silent understanding between man and beast. Then, as if conceding to this new dynamic, he sits. His tail sweeps the floor, cautious but friendly.
“Wait,” I add, testing the waters of our newfound rapport.
Baxter’s muscles tense, ready to spring into chaos, but he holds.
“Good boy,” I say softly, surprised at how happy this makes me.
He waits for the treat, and I reward his patience. In that exchange, something shifts. It’s more than just Baxter learning — I’m learning too.
Damn it, but Emily was right.
And of course she was. She’s the professional here. I’m the bumbling moron with a dog basically running his whole life.
A soft smile plays on Emily’s lips, and I feel seen in a way that’s both unnerving and comforting. There’s warmth in her gaze that thaws a corner of my heart.
“Nice job,” she says, still grinning.
“Maybe,” I concede, allowing myself a small sliver of hope.
I hand another treat to Baxter, his eyes flickering with understanding and eagerness. It’s a small moment of success, but still a great one… until Emily speaks.
“I heard about your father,” she says gently. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize that he had passed so suddenly.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, the words feeling like pebbles in my mouth.
My gaze drops to the floor, tracing the grain of the wood rather than meeting her concern. The walls of my heart throb, still too raw, too tender from the grief and resentment that cling like ivy. It’s such a complicated thing, relationships. My father was my hero while at the same time my greatest enemy.
How do I make peace with that truth — especially now that he’s gone?
“Did you plan on taking Baxter after your dad passed?” Her voice is soft, probing the edges of my private world.
“No,” I admit, the truth heavy on my tongue.
I don’t want to tell her any more. To reveal the condition of my inheritance, to lay bare the nature of my bonds with both my dad and Baxter feels like undressing a wound. I can’t have her see me as anything less than what I project — a man who means business, always in control and unflinching.
But as I watch her kneel beside Baxter, offering both discipline and affection with such ease, a strange sensation unfurls within me. Why does her opinion matter? Since when do I care about being seen as callous or ambitious?
“So, why did you take him?” She tilts her head, locking eyes with me. She’s waiting for more, a glimpse into my fortress.
But I deflect, sealing the gates. “He’s… he’s good company,” I finish lamely.
She blinks, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s seen the way I am with Baxter, knows there’s more to the story.
“Let’s do some leash training next,” she says, leaving me relieved that the conversation is ending.
The session continues, our time together passing in the blink of an eye. As Emily packs up her things, I feel a sense of both relief and regret. I need to get to work — I’ve lost so much time to dog training already — but I don’t want her to go.
“Good job today. See you next time.” She shoulders her bag.
“Yes. See you. Thank you again.” It’s all I manage before she slips out the door. I watch it close behind her, my breath caught somewhere between longing and relief.
I am getting soft, aren’t I? A whimsical thought, one that would’ve made my father chuckle, no doubt.
“Come on, Baxter,” I sigh, putting his leash on and leading him to the car.
As Baxter settles into the passenger seat, I glance around the parking garage, knowing Emily probably already left but also hoping for one more glimpse of her.
“I’m acting like a teenager,” I tell Baxter.
He licks the window.
“And I’m talking to a dog,” I mutter. “What the hell is happening to me? I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
The more important question is, is that a good thing or a bad thing?