6. Griffin
GRIFFIN
I bounce my left leg as I sit in my Audi, eager for Ashton’s arrival at the shelter. My energy peaks to a level ten. The two extra cups of coffee I pounded back this morning are helping, I’m sure.
I’m anxious to tell Ashton the news that’s been buzzing in my veins since I woke up this morning.
I’m going to be a dog owner.
Sadly, last night after a bath, the dog retreated under my bed and never came out.
Witnessing this broke me. I knew I hadn’t earned her trust, but I wanted it so badly.
Growing up, my parents said I didn’t have time to take care of a dog with my acting commitments.
Now I have one, and someone treated her so poorly that she’s terrified of me.
When I closed my eyes in bed last night, I pictured her sweet, wrinkled face with her sad chocolate eyes and decided I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else owning her. I wouldn’t risk her experiencing more mistreatment.
Like some crazed dog fanatic, I whispered into the dark, “I’m going to keep you, girl. You’re going to have a good life here. With me. We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Despite her lack of response, I committed my heart to her all the same.
I named her Roxy—a strong, resilient name.
Then I went straight to Google for help, like any dog novice would and discovered Ashton’s blog.
Though, I didn’t actually know it was hers at first. There was no name attached to it, only The Furry Godmother .
But after some digging on the “About Me” page, I zoomed in and spotted the same California Bay Animal Shelter logo in the background that I’d seen on her shirt yesterday.
The woman in the picture was petite and blonde with a wide smile on her face.
Multiple dogs surrounded her. You could only see a smidgen of her face due to sunglasses and a hat, but I knew.
I knew it was her as certainly as if she were staring directly back at me as she had yesterday with those big, brown doe eyes of hers.
I read a few of her articles and was both charmed by her writing style and awed by her knowledge of dogs.
A few posts were dedicated to her desire to start a nonprofit rescue for rehabilitating dogs with behavioral struggles.
The very definition of Roxy—timid, shy, and a sufferer of trauma.
I’d decided then that she was the perfect person to help navigate this new pet-ownership territory.
I may have gone to sleep worried about Roxy, but I woke up multiple times last night thinking of a certain blonde. One that’s pulling into the parking lot at this very moment in an old silver Camry.
My blood pumps harder in my veins and I leap out of my car, eager to experience another interaction with Ashton.
I enjoyed our all-too-brief repartee yesterday more than I care to admit.
She made me feel like a normal guy, not some Hollywood hunk.
It made gaining her attention and favor feel more like a challenge. I liked it.
I wait with my back pressed against my car, one foot crossed over the other, sipping my coffee. Cool, casual, calm. Not at all how I really feel inside.
Her car door creaks open and she emerges from it.
She doesn’t look in my direction. She’s holding a coffee cup in one hand and slipping a purse over her shoulder with the other.
Lifting the coffee up high to keep her purse strap on, she shuts the car door with her hip.
Her purse subsequently gets caught in the door.
She wasn’t exaggerating yesterday when she said she’s a bit clumsy. “You okay, there?”
She yelps and jolts. Coffee splashes out of her cup lid and down her hand.
I cringe. “Need any help?”
She holds the cup higher. “Nope. Nope. All good here.”
She finally gets her purse, coffee, and door situation under control and turns to walk toward the entrance of the shelter, where I’m conveniently parked. I stride toward her to assist, holding out a hand to take the coffee. “I’ll get that.”
“I’m good. I’m good.”
“Seriously, it’s not a problem.” I take the cup from her hand. She’s wearing black scrubs again with the shelter’s logo. This time, however, instead of a messy bun, her hair is down in loose, golden waves.
She shakes out her arm and hand, flinging off the residual coffee. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Her eyes dip to my chest and abdomen. Some internal part of me droops a little. Maybe she’s just like all other women—seeing me only for my physique.
“I see you found some clothes that fit today.”
I laugh, caught off guard. “Yes. The other was thrown in my fire pit the second I got home.”
“Shame. Would have made a nice blouse for someone.”
She continues walking, sorting through her keys.
I stand momentarily frozen, in awe of this woman. She, yet again, surprises and intrigues me.
“What are you doing here so early? We don’t open for another thirty minutes.” She peers back toward my car. “Where’s the dog? Is she with you?”
I lunge forward to catch up with her. “No. That’s partially why I’m early.”
“Because you’re excited to adopt her today?”
That’s half the reason I said I had a proposition for her in my email. “That’s partially why.” I stop next to her, her floral scent filling my nostrils.
She glances over at me. I’m smiling wide. Her lips slowly tilt upward. And this small victory feels massive. I internally fist-pump.
“Great. I’m happy to hear that.” She unlocks the door, holds it open for me, and slips inside.
She flips on several light switches along the wall.
“Just give me a few minutes to get the paperwork together.” She puts her keys and purse on the counter before turning to rifle through some paperwork in a file sorter on the desk behind the counter.
I approach the counter and set down her coffee, studying her while she’s occupied.
The morning light illuminates her blonde hair, framing her soft, friendly chestnut eyes.
I note a small dusting of light freckles across her nose and cheeks, making her appear younger.
And suddenly I’m curious about how old she is.
She can’t be too far from my own twenty-eight years.
I rest my forearms on the counter, unsure how to ask my question for fear of judgment. “The thing is, I’m having a hard time with Roxy and could use your help.”
She straightens and turns her full attention to me. The sun shines brightly onto the white Formica flooring, reflecting light into her eyes and making their hue look more like honey.
“Roxy?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, uh, I named her Roxy. Seems fitting. She’s a tough girl. I think she’s earned the name.”
This time, her lips widen enough to reveal a brilliant smile. And suddenly, I know just how to get this woman to open up to me. Her love of animals.
“That’s a great name,” she says.
“I thought so, too.” I smile and stare, struck by just how pretty this girl is. And betting she has no idea.
“You said you’re having a hard time?” She leans closer, her hip pressing into the desk. Her forehead wrinkles so similarly to Roxy’s. It’s endearing.
“Yeah, we’re, uh, sort of having a hard time getting her to come out from under the bed.”
Her eyes soften and her head tilts. “Oh no. Did you try to persuade her with treats?”
“We tried just about everything. Treats, food, water, toys. Nothing seems to work.”
She bites her lower lip and looks toward the front door. “Did you leave the room at all last night?”
“No, I didn’t want her to feel abandoned. Luke—my cousin, the driver you, er, um, met yesterday?—”
“The one that almost hit me?” She arches an eyebrow.
“Yes. That’d be the one. One of us was in the room the whole time.”
She nods. “Do you have an outdoor exit to the room she’s in?”
“Yeah. She’s in my master bedroom. There’re some sliding doors to my back patio.”
“Okay, try opening those doors and leaving the room. Sometimes, animals that have been chained or trapped for long periods just want to have freedom. She’s bound to go outside. I’m sure she desperately needs to use the restroom by now.”
“It’s one of the reasons I rushed over here.” I pull my phone from my back pocket. “I’m going to shoot Luke a text and tell him to open the patio door.”
She slides a clipboard with paperwork onto the counter. “You’ll fill out those three pages. Ignore the bottom portion on the third. I’ll take care of that part.”
“Sure.” I send the text and grab the clipboard and pen she laid out. “Are you always the first to get here in the mornings?”
She shrugs. “I like to get here early. Everyone else should trickle in over the next fifteen minutes or so.”
I pause filling out the paperwork and glance at my phone. “He says he opened the door.”
“Great. Tell him to go into another room of the house. Maybe the living room? Is there a window where he can view the backyard?”
“Yeah. There is.” I type out the instructions. He responds, saying he’s done it. “Okay, he’s in the living room.”
Ashton stands on her tiptoes, trying to peer at my phone.
I resist the instinct to slide the phone across, allowing her to read it, in hopes she comes closer.
Three dots appear. “He’s saying something. Hang on.” The dots disappear. Then reappear, followed by, She’s going outside .
“He says she’s going outside!”
“That’s great.” She comes around the counter and stands next to me, waiting for the next text, as invested as I am.
She presses closer, her lilac scent tickling my nose. I resist leaning into it. “She’s pottying! She’s going right now!”
Ashton laughs.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout that in your ear.”
She turns to me, her face aglow, and darn it all if it isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time. Like pure sunshine. I resist the urge to give her a celebratory hug.
Instead, I say, “You’re a genius. You really are The Furry Godmother.”
She blushes and moves back to the other side of the counter.
“So my blog says.” She shifts some papers around on the desk.
“About that. I don’t usually tell people my name.
That was sort of a slip-up on my part.” She looks up at me quickly and then away again.
“I’d like to keep the blog anonymous. I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from telling anyone else. ”
I’m more curious than ever as to why she’d keep her talents such a secret. It’s a strange request, but if there’s anyone who understands the value of having a personal life, it’s me.
“Sure. No problem. I did tell Luke, but he won’t say anything to anyone. I’ll talk to him about it.”
She nods and bites her lower lip.
I set my phone down. “About the proposition I mentioned…”
Small lines form between her brows. “Yes?”
Is there a sound of hope in her tone?
“I would like to hire you to train Roxy. Well, and me.”
She huffs a laugh. “Train you…and Roxy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Don’t most people get some kind of training for their dog?”
“Some. Not all. But I mean, why me?”
“Why not you? You clearly have the knowledge and the talent. I’ve read your blog. Your articles are fantastic. You’re smart, and passionate, and you’ve already met Roxy. Sounds like the perfect match to me.”
Her eyes widen, but her focus isn’t on me. It’s on something over my shoulder. I shoot a glance behind me. A red Mercedes pulls into the parking lot next to my Audi.
“How—”
I face her, my back to the incoming customer. “Well, I figured we’d set up a schedule. Meet somewhere? Set up a payment plan? That kind of thing?”
“No. No. No!”
“Really?” While I wasn’t sure she’d accept my request, I didn’t expect her to turn me down so quickly. I’m surprised by the hurt that punches my gut.
“No. Not you.” She comes around the counter and starts guiding me sideways.
I stand firm, halting her progress. “Are you throwing me out? A polite no would have sufficed.” I laugh, trying to diffuse her tension. Have I offended her?
“It’s not that. I just need you to not be here.” She starts pushing me this time.
“Is it your boss from yesterday? Because I think she kind of liked?—”
“No. It’s not her.”
It’s cute—the way her face scrunches up and her adorable attempt at brute force. I could easily remain immobile, but the fact is, I’m enjoying this feisty side of her. I let her propel my feet backward. “You want me to come back later?”
“No, I mean you can’t be seen right now.”
“Why?” My head whips toward the door, trying to catch sight of the incoming customer, but no one has stepped out yet. Most people love being seen with me, and yet she wants to hide me? This woman is baffling.
“I’m so sorry about this, but I promise it’s for your own good. Give me five minutes. That’s it.”
She reaches around me, swings open a door, and shoves me inside. I stumble backward. My feet catch on something, and my butt hits a mop bucket with a thunk .
“Five minutes.” She holds up her hand. “Please.”
“If you wanted to make out in a closet, all you had to do was ask nicely.”
“What?” Her cheeks pink. “No, it’s not like?—”
The front door chimes.
“Wait. Please,” she whispers and shuts the door in my face.
It’s the broken please that keeps me frozen with my butt in a bucket, patiently waiting for her to return.