Chapter 12
Jeremiah
The late August heat smacked me across the face every time I stepped out of my poorly air-conditioned truck. Even at four in the afternoon, the Atlanta humidity clung to everything like sap on bark, turning my uniform into a second skin of damp fabric that stuck to my back and chest.
I was sweating my balls off, and now, checking my route sheet, my stomach dropped. I recognized the next address.
Cuddles.
I pulled up to the nearby curb and shifted into park. The golden hellhound lounged on the front porch like some kind of deceptively fluffy prison warden, her tail wagging slowly as she spotted my truck.
The moment I stepped out, her demeanor changed.
The wagging stopped.
Her ears flattened against her head.
A low growl rumbled from her chest, and I swear I could see actual malice in those dark eyes.
“Hey there, Cuddles,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and friendly. “We’re friends now, right? I bring people packages. That’s a good thing. They might even have treats in them. You like treats, don’t you?”
She stood up, and her growl deepened. The ribbon of her pink bow fluttered in the light breeze that failed to cool my overheated skin.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the dog biscuit I’d started carrying specifically for situations like this.
It was supposed to be foolproof, some expensive organic thing the pet store clerk had sworn would make any dog my best friend—or at least distract them long enough for me to drop a package on a porch and make my escape sans blood or torn clothing.
“Look what I’ve got,” I said, holding the bone-shaped baked good toward the gate. “Nice treat for a friendly dog.”
Cuddles lunged at the fence, her teeth snapping inches from my fingers. The wooden slats jerked and shook so violently I worried the whole fence might come down.
I jerked my hand back so fast I nearly dropped the package.
“Okay, message received,” I muttered, shoving the treat back in my pocket. “We’re doing this the hard way.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, brushed my damp hair back, and sucked in a deep breath.
The package needed to be delivered. The whole “come rain or snow or . . . whatever” wasn’t my company’s slogan, but we sang from the same hymnal.
This was my job—and I’d be damned if I was going to let one psychotic golden retriever defeat me.
I flicked the latch on the gate and stepped inside, holding the treat out for Cuddles to see before tossing it in a lazy arc toward the opposite side of the perfectly manicured lawn.
She tracked it with her eyes but didn’t run.
Her head snapped back toward me, the enemy crossing a very hard line.
She was on me before I could blink.
Her teeth clamped down on the hem of my pants, and she began pulling with the determination of a Marine desperate to survive training. I half walked, half dragged myself up the front steps, Cuddles hanging off my leg like some kind of furry, snarling accessory.
“Nice doggy,” I grunted, trying to shake her off. “Good doggy. Please don’t eat me.”
I managed to ring the doorbell and leave the package on the welcome mat, all while Cuddles maintained her death grip on my uniform pants. The fabric was starting to stretch in alarming ways. I could practically hear the stitches straining.
“Okay, delivery complete,” I announced to my canine captor. “Time to go home.”
I started backing toward the gate, but Cuddles had other plans. She released my pants only to leap up and sink her teeth into the back of my shirt, just below my shoulder blades. My whole body jerked back, and I felt the fabric give way with a horrible ripping sound.
“Cuddles, no!”
But it was too late.
She tore a massive gash across the back of my shirt, leaving me a fabric front and sleeves—and a well-air-conditioned, very-exposed back.
I shifted from fast-walk to panicked run, stumbling through the gate and slamming it shut behind me.
I was breathing hard, heaving like I’d just run a marathon with a truck strapped to my back.
Cuddles stood on the other side of the fence, her tail now wagging, looking incredibly pleased with herself. If dogs could smirk, she was doing it.
I slumped to the ground and lay against a nearby oak tree, immediately regretting the move as bark dug into the skin of my back.
My shirt hung in tatters. Sweat dripped down my face.
At a loss for anything more productive, I engaged in what had become a familiar stalemate with the evilest golden retriever in all of Atlanta.
“You know,” I said to her, “most dogs like mail carriers, especially this one. I’m nice and bring offerings. What’s your deal, Cuddles? Scarred by that stupid name? Wish someone would rip that idiotic ribbon off your head? What’s got your panties bunched so tight you can’t lick your own—”
She tilted her head like she was considering this information, then went back to glaring at me through the fence slats.
A car pulled into a driveway across the street, its growling engine drawing the dog’s gaze and then mine.
Peering around the tree, I found Theo’s modest sedan, and my heart did that familiar gymnastic routine it had been practicing since our dinner.
Through the passenger window, I caught sight of Debbie’s bright face pressed against the glass.
“Willie Wee! Willie Wee!” she shrieked, her tiny hands and nose pressing firmly against the window.
The car had barely stopped when the back door flew open and Debbie launched herself out like she’d been spring-loaded. She still wore her school backpack, pigtails bouncing as she ran straight toward the street.
Straight toward me.
Straight toward Cuddles.
“Debbie, no!” I shouted, pushing off from the tree. “That dog isn’t safe—”
The world shifted into slow motion.
I watched her little legs pumping as she crossed the street, her face bright with excitement. I turned to see Cuddles at the gate, alert, ears forward, tail still, focused on the approaching child the way a torpedo focuses on a targeted ship.
This was it.
This was how I was going to watch a five-year-old get mauled by the psychopath neighborhood dog while her father watched in horror.
I pushed off the tree, lunging forward, my legs pumping as I tried to intercept her before she reached the gate. “Debbie, stop! Don’t—”
She skidded to a halt at the fence a half second before I did, her small hands already working the latch.
“Cuddles!” she called out happily. “I missed you!”
The gate swung open.
I braced myself for screaming, for blood, for the horrible sound of a child in pain.
Instead, I gaped in stunned disbelief as Cuddles dropped to the ground and rolled onto her back, tail wagging so hard her entire body wiggled with joy. She made soft whimpering sounds as Debbie dropped to her knees beside her.
“Who’s a good girl?” Debbie cooed, rubbing the dog’s belly with both hands. “Who’s the best girl in the whole world?”
Cuddles’s back leg kicked frantically in the air, her tongue lolling out in pure bliss.
I stared, mouth hanging open, watching the most vicious dog I’d ever encountered transform into a gentle giant at the touch of a five-year-old’s hands.
“She likes belly rubs,” Debbie explained matter-of-factly, glancing up at me. “Don’t you, Cuddles? Yes, you do, you sweet baby.”
Cuddles made a sound that could only be described as a canine purr.
“I . . . I don’t understand,” I said weakly.
“She’s protective of her house,” Theo’s voice came from behind me. I spun to find him approaching with a bemused expression. His eyes were narrowed, staring at my back, before rising to meet my baffled gaze. “But she loves kids. Especially Debbie.”
“Protective,” I repeated, looking at my shredded shirt. “Right.”
“She probably thinks you’re a threat to her family.” Theo’s eyes traveled over the damage to my uniform, and I saw something that might have been sympathy. “Or maybe she just doesn’t like the postal service.”
“Apparently.”
Debbie was now lying on her back beside Cuddles. They were a blur of ribbons and hair and tongues and giggles . . . both of them basking in the afternoon sun like the best of friends. The dog finally stilled, resting her head on Debbie’s tiny shoulder.
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered.
Theo moved closer, close enough that I caught the scent of books and coffee and something uniquely him. “You’re bleeding.”
I looked down and realized he was right. There were several small scratches on my arms where Cuddles had gotten a bit too enthusiastic with her claws.
“It’s nothing,” I said, but Theo was already frowning with concern.
“Turn around,” he ordered, so I did. “Jesus, Jer. Your back is all scratched up. One looks pretty deep.”
I turned back to face him, head lowered. “Guess she got me pretty good, after all.”
“Come inside. I’ll clean those up before they get infected.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Debbie,” he called. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get Willie Wee cleaned up.”
Heat crept up my neck.
“Willie Wee?” I asked, as amused as I was confused.
Theo shrugged, an adorable, if sheepish, grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “There’s no arguing with the logic of a kindergartener. It’s best to let them win the minor battles.”
Debbie was already scrambling to her feet.
“Is Willie Wee hurt?” she asked, suddenly worried.
“Just some scratches from Cuddles,” Theo said gently. “Nothing serious.”
“Bad Cuddles,” Debbie turned and scolded, wagging an itty-bitty finger toward the dog.
Cuddles, for her part, looked supremely satisfied as she watched us head toward Theo’s house.
“So,” he said quietly, “how do you feel about getting attacked by golden retrievers on a regular basis? I have a feeling this isn’t going to be your last encounter with Cuddles.”
I looked back at the dog, who was now sprawled contentedly on her porch where I’d found her in the first place, and then at Debbie skipping ahead of us, and finally at Theo, whose concerned expression was doing dangerous things to my heart rate.