Maggie #2
And just to be clear, I’m not starting. Not even a little bit. Because yes, objectively, he is… very attractive.
I clear my throat. No. We are not doing that today.
The girl’s hand slips from her father’s, and she takes another step into the lobby, her eyes moving from the painted river to the adoption wall to the glass room where the two puppies are still tumbling over each other.
There’s no wild shriek or grabby little-kid rush.
She watches first, taking it all in carefully, like the whole place matters.
Jules, who can charm anyone with a pulse and half the folks without one, smooths his palm over the front of his shirt and pastes on his polite welcome smile. “Hey there. Welcome to Second Chance Savannah.”
The man’s attention goes to him, his eyes traveling over Jules in a quick, thorough pass like he’s taking note of more than what’s said out loud. He keeps one hand in his pocket. The other rests lightly on the little girl’s back.
“We’re here to look,” he says, his voice low with a faint trace of a Russian accent. There’s nothing wasted in the way he speaks.
Jules’s brows rise just a touch, though most people wouldn’t notice. I do. “Of course. I’m Jules.”
The little girl steps toward the puppy room glass and flattens her palm against it. One of the pups bounces over, tail going like a metronome on fast-forward. She smiles, small at first, and then it spreads across her whole face, and Lord help me, that does me in.
I move before I even think about it.
“Hey, sugar,” I say gently as I come around the desk. “You can go in there in a minute if you’d like. They’re still learnin’ that not every visitor belongs to them.”
She turns to me. Up close, she’s all lashes, solemn eyes, and a face that could talk me into poor decisions with zero effort.
Her father turns too, and good grief, those ice-blue eyes hit me like a cold hand at the back of my neck.
I’ve dealt with city inspectors, angry ex-boyfriends returning “problem dogs” they created with their own stupidity, and one possum in the supply closet that refused to leave for six straight hours. Yet somehow looking at this man feels far more inconvenient.
“I’m Magnolia,” I say, then immediately wish my voice had come out a little less breathy and a lot more like my usual self. “But everyone calls me, Maggie. I own the shelter.”
The little girl studies me for one quiet second. “Do you know all their names?”
That makes me grin. “Every last one.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes get wider. “Even the cats?”
“Especially the cats. They get offended if I don’t.”
That earns me a tiny laugh. Not loud, more like she forgot to stop it in time.
Beside me, Jules mutters under his breath, “Well, that was fast.”
I ignore him.
The man looks at me fully then. Not a polite glance or a passing acknowledgment. A real look. It’s not rude exactly, but it’s direct enough to make me very aware of the damp patch still at my knee from my earlier showdown with the mop bucket.
“This is my daughter, Ivy,” he says.
The little girl tilts her chin up. “I’m six.”
“Six is a very good age,” I tell her.
She nods as if I’ve confirmed a matter of public record. “I want a dog.”
The man beside her exhales through his nose. “That’s still under discussion.”
Ivy twists toward him with all the dignity a child in star sneakers can manage. “Papa.”
He gives her a look that must mean a great deal in their house, because she goes quiet at once, though not unhappy. Used to being heard, I think. Used to rules, too.
I glance between them. “Well, y’all came to the right place for discussion.”
That almost earns me a smile from the little girl’s father. Almost. I see the tiniest change at the corner of his mouth before it’s gone.
“I’m Alexei,” he says.
Just Alexei. No last name, offered hand, or social fuss. It should annoy me, but it doesn’t annoy me nearly as much as the fact that his name sounds unfairly good in that deep, accented voice.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
My palm still tingles anyway, like it expected a handshake and feels silly for it.
Jules steps around the desk with a clipboard tucked to his side. “Would y’all like me to give you the formal shelter pitch, or would you rather Maggie charm you by accident while pretending she has no idea she’s doin’ it?”
“You keep that up, and I’m puttin’ you on litter box duty,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes.
“To be clear,” he says to Ivy, “I support women in leadership.”
Ivy’s smile peeks out again.
Alexei looks from Jules to me, not giving much away, just watching like he’s putting pieces together in his head. I don’t go digging for meaning in it. That seems like a good way to get myself in trouble.
“Well,” I say, tucking a loose hair behind my ear, “why don’t I show y’all around?”
I lead them first to the puppy room because I’m not cruel. Ivy kneels on the washable rug inside while two little mixed-breed fluff balls tumble into her lap like they’ve been waiting all morning for her. She laughs, open and bright, and the sound fills the room.
Alexei stays by the gate, not stiff or uneasy, more like he’s letting the room happen while keeping the whole thing within his reach.
I crouch near Ivy. “That one there is Clover,” I tell her, nodding to the brown-and-white female gnawing on a rope toy. “And the spotted one trying to climb your leg is Biscuit.”
“Biscuit,” Ivy repeats solemnly as if committing it to memory. “That’s a good name.”
“It suits him. He’s sweet and always underfoot.”
Jules snorts from the doorway.
I glance back. “What? He is.”
Alexei watches his daughter with an expression so quiet I almost miss it. Maybe it’s how he never takes his eyes off Ivy for more than a few seconds. Or maybe it’s just that he brought her here at all, when he seems like the last man who’d invite any unpredictability into his day.
I straighten. “Puppies are wonderful,” I say, brushing fur from my thigh, “but they’re also tiny chaos agents. If you’re lookin’ for a first dog, I usually steer folks toward adults with known habits. Especially with a child in the house.”
Alexei’s attention moves to me. “That seems reasonable.”
Ivy leans against my side as if we’ve known each other far longer than six minutes. “Can we see the adult dogs?”
“We sure can.”
We make our way slowly through the kennel hall.
I tell Ivy who likes belly rubs and who prefers space, who came in from animal control, and who was left tied outside a grocery store with a note tucked under his collar.
She listens hard, not with the wild, passing interest some kids have when grown-ups are talking, but with her whole face.
At Daisy’s kennel, she crouches right beside me. Daisy is a yellow lab mix with sugar on her muzzle and hips that rise a little slower these days. Sweet as pie, housebroken, and loves tennis balls like they personally offended her.
“She looks tired,” Ivy whispers.
“She’s older,” I say, resting my fingers through the bars so Daisy can nose them. “Not sick, though. She still likes walks and treats and sun puddles.”
“What’s a sun puddle?”
“The patch on the floor where the sunshine falls. Dogs know where to find ’em better than anybody.”
Ivy nods very seriously. “I like those too.”
I smile at her. “Then you and Daisy may have a lot in common.”
We go on like that for a while. Ivy meets Junebug, who cries if you stop petting her too soon, and Moose, a one-eyed hound with a bark too big for his body.
Alexei listens more than he speaks, and when he does, he asks real questions about vet history, age, behavior around children, crate training, and routine.
The man moves through a shelter as if he respects systems. That shouldn’t be attractive, yet here I am. My attention drops just enough to notice there’s no wedding ring on his hand and no mark where one’s been either.
Which is none of my business.
At all.
At Bella’s kennel, I reach into my pocket while explaining that Bella would do best in a home without cats. What I mean to grab is my folded kennel notes. What I actually pull out is a peanut-butter dog treat shaped like a bone.
Without thinking, because apparently my brain leaves my body whenever this man is within six feet of me, I hold it out toward Alexei and say, “Here.”
Silence. Pure, holy, burning silence. I stare at the treat in my hand. Then at him. Then at the treat again.
Jules makes a strangled noise behind me that sounds like a man being fought by his own laughter.
Ivy blinks up at me.
My face goes up in flames so fast I’m amazed the smoke alarm hasn’t gone off.
“Oh, my word,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I meant—this is for the dog.”
For one brief, deeply humbling second, I consider walking into the mop closet and living there forever.
Alexei looks down at the dog treat in my outstretched hand, then back at me.
I yank my hand back so fast the treat nearly flies into Bella’s water bowl.
I drop to a crouch and offer it to her instead. “There you go, baby,” I murmur, as if keeping my voice calm might reset reality.
It doesn’t.