30. A Room of Her Own
A ROOM OF HER OWN
Leighton
I could get used to this life.
The next morning, I’m standing on the second-floor balcony, sipping a steaming cup of Jasmine Downy Pearls—AKA the world’s greatest tea. The sun’s rising above the bay, and I tell myself yesterday was a mistake I won’t make again.
A delicious, toe-curling mistake. But even so, it can’t be repeated.
Especially since he’s now my employer. It’s temporary, but who knows?
It’s best if I don’t get more tangled up with a man who’s already so deeply entwined with my family and my job.
Now, my jobs. But I also don’t want to take a chance with my future or with his.
He’s worked too hard to risk the uncertainty that comes with a fling with the coach’s daughter. I care too much about Miles and my dad to put either one of them in that position.
Today I’ll return to the friendship we’d been building. I have to. It’s the only way.
The morning light casts a golden glow over the water—a good signal for this shift back. Wanting to capture this moment before it passes me by, I lift my phone and snap a photo.
I send it to Miles with a friendly message since we’ve talked about inspiration before.
Leighton: This view speaks to my photographer’s soul.
Miles: Yeah? What’s the story you’re telling with this picture?
Leighton: It’s the story of a girl who had a good night’s sleep in a soft bed with four perfect roommates. They burritoed themselves under the blankets and didn’t say a single word all night long.
Miles: They are the perfect roomies. I’m glad you got some peace and quiet. I sent the pics you sent me to my mom—she says you’re a better dog-sitter than I am.
Leighton: What every dog mom really wants—pics.
Miles: OK if I set up a group chat with her?
I type back a quick, Of course.
I reread the exchange. It’s friendly, casual. Safe. A new day where we move past yesterday’s not-so-friendly encounter when he put me up against the wall and finger-fucked me so well I saw distant galaxies.
Maybe we slipped yesterday, and fine, maybe I stoked the flames last night when I sent him a photo of me in my cami, sliding under those soft, fluffy covers.
But today, Montreal is a country apart from me. An international border separates us, and three time zones too.
We’ll be back to the way we were—just like that.
* * *
After leashing the pack by the front door, I count them. “One, two, three, four,” I say. Miles insisted counting them regularly keeps you sane and he’s not wrong. It helps.
We head out to Crissy Field, the dogs trotting beside me, their snouts sweeping the ground for scents, their gazes surveying the landscape for enemy dogs.
AKA—any dog that isn’t them.
Boppity, the long-haired pretty girl, spots one a hundred feet ahead—a Doberman Pinscher jogging past with a woman.
Boppity growls, low and menacing, all seven pounds of her (and that is mostly hair), before launching into an ear-splitting, how dare you walk past me bark. Boo joins in, backing her up.
“Boppity, you think you’re a German Shepherd, don’t you?” I ask.
She prances ahead, tail wagging sassily—a German Shepherd trapped in a Chihuahua body. I take a pic and send it to the dog chat captioned: Chihuahua Confidence Level—100.
So friendly.
I’m acing this return to friendship land.
Thirty minutes later, we’re back at Miles’s home, which is so delightfully quiet and free of roomie shenanigans that I could weep with happiness. I double-check the head-count as I lock the door behind us. “Everyone’s here.” I unclip their harnesses and set the gear on the dog shelf by the door.
A buzz from my phone distracts me—a photo from Miles’s mom of her hand holding a pina colada, the wide-open sea in the background, with a heartfelt thank you for the dog pics.
I smile. She’s loving her trip.
Miles sends a message just to me.
Miles: Thank you. Seriously, just thank you.
Sometimes text has no tone, but not this one. I can hear his gratitude, and it makes me feel shimmery.
* * *
After showering and applying a little makeup, I let the dogs out in the backyard one last time before gathering my camera bag so I can head out to a boudoir shoot. It’s Monday and I don’t usually do boudoir then, but with the team out of town, it was easy to schedule one for this morning.
But when I return to the living room, I only count three.
“Where’s Bippity?” I scan the room. No tawny, yippy pup cuddled with the others.
“Bippity?” My voice is light, but my chest tightens. I check the kitchen first—she’s not by the water bowl. I move to the little library. No tiny pup curled in the corner.
My pulse climbs as I race upstairs. “Bippity!” I call louder. Did I leave the balcony door open? The thought makes my stomach drop.
I fling open the bedroom door, relieved to see the sliding glass door shut tight.
But still, no dog. Yanking the phone from my pocket, I toggle over to the dog GPS app Miles installed.
As it loads, my heart pounds and I search the en suite bathroom.
Then Miles’s walk-in closet filled with suits and dress shirts I should absolutely not touch later, then under the bed.
Nothing.
What if she Houdini-ed her way outside? What if she’s stuck somewhere?
In the app, I click on Bippity’s photo and then ask for her location. While it answers, I rush back down the hall, yanking open the guest room door. It protests with a groan, but I push it harder and hunt under the bed, then the closet, calling her name.
No luck.
The app brags unhelpfully: We found Bippity! She’s at home!
With an exclamation point, no less.
That’s good. Of course that’s good, but my pulse barely settles. I still need to find her and the app doesn’t pinpoint location to a room. After I dash downstairs, I check the backyard, pushing the door open in a nanosecond. No Bippity.
“Where are you, Houdini?”
But the dog still doesn’t answer, and my throat tightens with fear. I don’t want to do this, but I need help. I call Miles.
“Hey,” he answers immediately, the sound of traffic and voices in the background. French, I think, since he’s in Montreal. “I was about to call you.”
What? Why? “You were?” I ask, barely masking my panic.
“Yeah, sorry to be a spy, but I’m guessing you can’t find Bippity. I got a camera alert from the dog-cam in the living room, and you looked a little frantic.”
Relief washes over me, mingling with irritation. “Where is she?”
“Check the guest room.”
“I did! And the app says she’s in the house, but I can’t find her.”
He chuckles softly. “That’s her spot. The guest room. She likes to hide there sometimes. I should’ve told you—I’m sorry.”
My heart races as I tear down the hall and reach the closed door. Weird. I definitely left it open moments ago. “How can she close the door on herself?”
“It’s the angle. It always falls shut, so I keep it closed, but if she slips in while it’s open, she gets a room of her own.”
I twist the knob and shove the door open. “She’s not here!”
“Look between the pillows,” he says, unbothered.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” I grumble, but I yank the pillows off the bed—and there she is. A little tawny peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich between two big pillows.
“Little stinker,” I mutter, scooping her up and clutching her close. She licks my face, entirely unapologetic.
Miles laughs in my ear.
“You’re laughing at a time like this?” I snap. “You should’ve told me about the Houdini pup!”
“I was going to. I even started to yesterday, but then, well, my brain kind of drained out of my head when you grabbed my tie.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say, but I’m already smiling as I carry her down the stairs.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, a smile in his voice. “But je ne regrette rien.”
He’s speaking French. I don’t know the language, but I can figure it out. “You regret nothing?”
“Yep.”
He sounds delightfully smug. And the memory of yesterday flickers before my eyes, hot and bright. Pleasure curls in my belly, a reminder of what he did to me.
I’m supposed to be moving on. Resetting. Yet I have no regrets either. “Same here,” I admit as I set Bippity on the couch with the others.
“Yeah?” he asks, sounding…happy.
“Even though you’re the worst.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says smoothly.
I’m too intrigued by his promise to let it go, though I should. I’m sure I should. Instead, I ask, “How?”
Even with the noise of the Canadian city, I can hear a low rumble in his voice—god bless deep sounds. Then he says, “You could let me taste you properly.”
I gasp, faux annoyed, but really, I’m turned on. “We’re not supposed to do that,” I say, but it sounds like the lady doth protest too much.
“You don’t sound mad,” he observes.
“I was mad. I thought I was a terrible dog-sitter,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.
“You’re doing great,” he reassures me, dropping the flirting. “That was my fault.”
“Next time, leave instructions for the escape artist,” I say, not truly annoyed anymore.
“I will,” he promises. “I was distracted yesterday. But that’s on me. I should have given you a heads-up about her tricks. I’m glad you called, though, even though I was about to call you.”
“Spy,” I mutter, though a part of me likes how much he was paying attention.
“I only used my dog-cam for good,” he says, then pauses. “Anyway…I’m glad you called because it’s good to hear your voice.”
I told myself I was resetting, moving on. But now, all I want is to talk to him. “How’s Montreal?”
“J’aime cette ville,” he says.
“I love it here?” I ask.
“I love this city, so close enough.”
“And do you speak French?”
“Only enough to be dangerous.”
“How did you learn it?” I ask. “Or if I go into your library, will I find books written in French?”
He laughs. “I’m not that good. I read in English, but I know enough to get by since I went to McGill.”
Oh, right. “I remember that.”
“You remember it?”
“I looked up your bio. After I met you,” I admit.
He laughs softly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. I’ve said plenty of nice things.”
“True. You have. But that’s up there.”