Chapter Twenty
Dominic
I can’t stop smiling. It’s been a full day since our rooftop dinner, and I’m still riding that high. Every few minutes, I catch myself grinning at nothing like some lovesick teenager.
It’s embarrassing, really.
But every time I try to get my face under control, I remember the way Nicole looked under those string lights, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her housing project, the way her lips felt against mine.
And just like that, I’m smiling all over again.
I’m sprawled across my couch, ESPN muted on the TV, half-heartedly scrolling through plays Coach sent over. But I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting back to the feeling of Nicole’s hand in mine.
I’ve barely been in LA for two months. I’ve spent most of that time complaining about everything that isn’t Texas. And yet…
A sharp knock at my door jolts me from my thoughts.
When I pull the door open, Nicole’s standing there, her platinum blonde hair piled in a messy bun, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed as if she ran here, and she’s clutching her tablet to her chest like it contains state secrets.
“Dom! Thank goodness you’re home.” She bounces on her toes, practically vibrating with energy. “I just found the most amazing thing, and I thought of you immediately, and I know this is probably weird, but I couldn’t wait.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Slow down, Nic. What’s going on?”
“Princess!” she exclaims, as if that explains everything. She steps closer without thinking, and I steady her by the waist, my hands landing there like they’ve always known the shape of her. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in.
I raise an eyebrow. “Princess?”
“Yes! She needs a home, and I instantly thought of your grandfather’s farm in Texas, and it seemed so perfect that I had to come right over.” She thrusts her tablet toward me, but it’s locked and the screen is black.
“Whoa, let’s rewind.” I hold up my hands. “Who’s Princess?”
“Oh!” She looks momentarily confused, then laughs. “Princess is a pig. The most amazing pig you’ve ever seen.”
I blink at her. “A pig.”
“Not just any pig.” Her eyes are wide and serious. “A very special pig who needs a very special home.”
I try to process this information. Nicole is at my door, out of breath, excited about … a pig. One she wants to send to my grandfather’s farm. In Texas.
It’s objectively ridiculous.
And yet, the way her eyes light up when she talks—even about a pig—makes my chest warm in a way that’s becoming familiar. I realize I’d listen to her talk about literally anything if it meant watching her like this.
“Do you want to come in?” I step aside, gesturing to my apartment. “You can tell me all about this very special pig.”
“Yes! Thank you!” She darts past me, leaving behind a trail of floral shampoo scent in her wake.
I close the door behind her and catch myself smiling at how easily Nicole moves through my space, like she belongs here.
“So, remember how I told you I found Cocoa on the Fur-Ever Homes Facebook page?” she asks, dropping onto my couch and unlocking her tablet.
She pats the cushion beside her. “They also have this forum. It’s where everyone goes when their rescue pet is spiraling …
or when they are.” She smirks. “Anyway, Fur-Ever Homes posted about Princess this morning. Her owner passed away, and they’ve been struggling to place her.
Most people don’t know what to do with her. ”
“And Princess is the pig.” I settle next to Nicole, close enough that our knees touch. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she angles toward me, her shoulder brushing my arm like it’s an unconscious decision.
“Yes! Her owner was an eccentric but incredibly tender-hearted older woman, and Princess was her whole world.” She swipes rapidly at her tablet. “She’s a pot-bellied pig—I think she was supposed to be mini, but she’s actually around seventy pounds now…”
“That happens a lot,” I comment. “People buy ‘teacup’ pigs not realizing they’ll grow.”
Nicole looks up, surprised. “You know about pigs?”
I shrug. “I know some things. My best friend in elementary school raised them for 4-H.”
“Perfect!” She beams at me. “Then you already have pig experience! This is even better than I thought.”
“Whoa, hold on.” I hold up a hand. “I never said I was going to adopt a pig. I just said I know a bit about them.”
“Not for you,” she clarifies. “For your grandfather’s farm. Didn’t you say he has horses and chickens? What’s one little pig?”
“Seventy pounds isn’t exactly little,” I point out.
“Compared to a horse?” She nudges my shoulder with hers. “Come on, just look at her profile before you say no. She’s amazing.” She turns the tablet toward me, and I’m greeted with a professional-quality photo of a pig wearing a pink tutu and what appears to be a tiara.
“Is that…?” I trail off, not even sure what question to ask.
“Her Sunday best,” Nicole says seriously. “She has a whole wardrobe.”
I look from the tablet to Nicole’s earnest face and back again. I can’t tell if she’s joking.
“Her previous owner spoiled her because she could. Princess has just … never known anything else. But let’s read through her profile,” Nicole suggests, scrolling down. “Then you can decide if she’d be a good fit for your grandfather.”
The profile starts innocently enough. Princess is a pot-bellied pig, described as “affectionate with her chosen humans.” But as we keep reading, my eyebrows climb higher and higher up my forehead.
“Listen to this,” Nicole reads aloud. “‘Princess considers herself royalty and expects to be treated as such. She prefers to spend her days lounging on soft surfaces and being hand-fed grapes. She requires a minimum of three outfit changes per day and will not tolerate being dressed in anything but designer fabrics.’”
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not done!” Nicole continues, fighting a smile herself. “‘Princess refuses to sleep anywhere but on her memory foam bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.’”
“My grandfather would have a heart attack,” I manage to say through my laughter. “He expects animals to be, you know, animals. The chickens live in a coop. The horses live in a barn. They don’t wear tiaras.”
“But that’s the thing—Princess isn’t just an animal. She’s an icon. A little celebrity in her own right.” Nicole scrolls further down. “‘Princess doesn’t do the outdoors and has no intention of starting now.’”
I shake my head in disbelief. “So, she’s an indoor pig who wears clothes and has never seen dirt. And my grandfather, a lifelong farmer who thinks air conditioning is for city folk, is supposed to cater to her?”
Nicole’s face falls slightly. “Well, when you put it that way…”
“There’s more,” I say, taking the tablet from her and continuing to read.
“‘Princess has type 2 diabetes requiring twice-daily medication. She must be bathed weekly in an oversized tub with her special lavender soap imported from France. And she wears custom-made diapers for overnight use, as she occasionally has accidents when sleeping.’”
“Okay, so she has some special needs,” Nicole concedes. “But look how cute she is!”
She swipes to the next photo, which shows Princess in what appears to be a velvet cape and crown, sitting on a miniature throne. I can’t deny the pig has personality—her round eyes seem to look directly at the camera with an expression that can only be described as haughty.
“Nicole,” I say gently, “I love that you’re so passionate about helping animals. But Princess needs someone who can maintain her … lifestyle. My grandfather is seventy-three years old. He’s not going to give a pig diabetes shots, change her diapers, or dress her in tutus.”
I reach out without thinking, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flick to mine, softening, and I know she hears the care underneath my words.
“I guess you’re right.” She sighs. “I just got so excited when I saw her. She’s been looking for a home for months. Look—” She scrolls further down. “She’s even been featured in campaigns by celebrities.”
Sure enough, there are photos of Princess posing with various influencers and celebrities, all trying to help her find a permanent home.
I spot a couple athletes who’ve shared about her, too—Callum Murray, Trevor Chapman.
Despite her apparent fame, Princess is still without a family—the only one she ever knew is gone.
Something settles in my chest at the thought. The jokes fade, the tiaras and tutus suddenly feeling less ridiculous and more like remnants of a life where someone adored her completely.
I glance at Nicole and then back at Princess’s face on the screen, and an idea strikes me. “You know, I might not be able to adopt her, but I could try to help find her a home. We could make a post about Princess on social media, maybe even a video.”
Her face lights up, and that warm feeling spreads through my chest again.
“Dom, that’s brilliant! You have so many followers.
We could do it right now!” Nicole jumps up, energized.
“I can make some signs with Princess’s information, and you could do a quick video explanation.
Oh! And we should include Cocoa somehow. Animals helping animals!”
Before I can respond, she’s already digging through my kitchen drawers. “Do you have any markers? Paper? Cardstock would be ideal, but printer paper works, too.”
“Check the drawer by the fridge,” I call, amused by her instant shift into project mode. “I think there’s a notepad in there.”
While Nicole bustles around making impromptu adoption signs, I check my phone. “I should probably run this by my agent first. Edward gets twitchy when I do unplanned social media stuff.”
“This is for charity!” Nicole insists, already scribbling on paper. “For a homeless pig princess! No agent would object to that.”