A Fool for April (Nebraska Knights #8)

Chapter 1 April

APRIL

So far, it’s been a “Well, pinch me” kind of day and I’m only getting started.

I hit send on my business proposal for The Barkery exactly one minute before my laptop battery died, which feels like “perfect timing” to me.

I found a five-dollar bill in my sock drawer—how it got there, I’ll never know.

My upstairs neighbor is out of town, which means I got eight uninterrupted hours of sleep last night—a rarity since he is an aspiring professional tap dancer and practices at all hours.

Typically, I work from home at both my corporate contracting job for a pet supplies company as well as my dog bakery online storefront and I caught up on both task lists.

My pupcakes are selling like hotcakes and I’ve been getting lots of special orders for doggie gotcha days, birthdays, and special occasions.

Woot! Woot!

Oh, and the sun is finally shining after a long and dreary winter. I am so glad the groundhog did not see its shadow! I stretch into a patch of light beaming through the window.

Now, while my ancient computer gasps back to life on the charger, my phone buzzes with a notification that makes me do my own little internal tap dance as I finish my first coffee of the day.

New client application received. My business is growing and I can almost see it taking shape in a new shop space where I get to spend all day with dogs and dog-lovers.

Go me!

Travel mug in hand, as I walk to my car, everything is coming up daisies. Or irises and daffodils, to be more seasonally accurate.

I’m practically vibrating with the kind of excitement usually reserved for dogs who’ve just spotted a squirrel convention as I navigate my twelve-year-old Ford out of Omaha—yep, still rolling with the sweet sixteen gift from my parents.

They gave it to me when they still thought I was going to follow the path they laid out for my future.

The fifteen-minute drive to Cobbiton feels shorter today. I ponder whether it’s because I feel like the future I’ve desired isn’t quite so out of reach.

Green leaves on the trees unfurl like nature’s welcome committee, and tulips nod their sunny heads in agreement that yes, today is going to be a good day. The fields are turning the specific shade of green that always makes me forget about winter’s existence entirely.

How did I get so lucky?

Well, in life, anyway. Not so much in love.

I push that thought away like I always do—I do not have a decade-long crush. It’s merely mild appreciation. I tell myself I can stop thinking about him anytime. I just don’t feel like it.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine!

I’ve only ever imagined our wedding day once. It’s not like I want to have his children. Sheesh. Calm down. But maybe three. Five. A whole hockey team. Kidding. I’m joking! Simmer down, hormones!

I pass the Welcome to Cobbiton town sign, and I can’t help but smile as I take a sip of coffee out of my paw-print travel mug.

This place has popcorned its way into my affections over the past year, despite the fact that I technically live in a shoebox-sized studio apartment in Omaha.

But Cobbiton feels like a place I could someday call home.

I slow down as I reach Main Street, my gaze automatically drawn to the empty storefront between the Busy Bee Bakery and Once Upon a Romance bookstore. The For Lease sign in the window might as well have a spotlight on it and an entire arena cheering me on.

It would be perfect for The Barkery.

Every Friday night when I’m not at a hockey game or hanging out with Clark or the girls, I bring my dream to life on my laptop—complete with interior design mockups, links to industrial mixers and adorable dog-shaped cookie cutters, training equipment materials, and several color schemes for the walls.

I print everything out and keep it in a three-ring binder because having a physical copy makes it feel more real. More possible.

Someday. Hopefully, someday soon.

I force myself to look away from the storefront and continue down Main Street.

Gracie Brandt is updating the window display at Once Upon a Romance.

I honk lightly and wave. She looks up, her dainty features breaking into a smile as she waves back with what appears to be a book featuring a cute couple on the cover.

Everyone would agree that this is very on-brand for Gracie, especially since she found her HEA IRL.

Translation: the sunniest woman in town met a veritable beast and fell in love.

The Old Mill Building looms ahead—a gorgeous converted warehouse that now houses trendy lofts, boutique shops, and, most importantly, Clark’s apartment.

I pull into the parking lot and grab my tote, which contains the essentials: poop bags, treats, a water bottle, doggy wipes, and an emergency first aid kit, because you can never be too prepared.

Ooh! I just had a brainwave. I should get printed totes for The Barkery!

The building’s industrial-chic aesthetic always makes me a little wistful.

The exposed brick, the oversized windows, the polished concrete floors—it’s exactly the kind of space that could also work nicely for The Barkery.

Professional but welcoming. Urban but warm.

More affordable than Main Street, but unfortunately, there aren’t any vacancies because they get snapped up so fast. As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

I take the stairs to the third floor—the elevator tends to be slow, I don’t mind the exercise, and I cannot wait to see the fur babies. I do my courtesy knock on apartment 3C.

No answer, which isn’t surprising. Usually, Clark is at practice at this time of day, but on the off chance he isn’t, I wouldn’t want to walk in unexpectedly—especially not if he just emerged from the shower in nothing more than a towel.

I mean, it’s not like I’ve imagined that either.

I do not have a crush on my best friend.

This is just a misunderstanding between my brain and heart.

A long-standing one that I’ve tried to clarify for all parties involved, but still.

He gave me a key months ago “for dog emergencies,” which is code for “thank you for walking my dogs because I cannot arrange my life around their bladder schedules.” To be clear, it was not code for “you’re the future Mrs. Culpepper, so it makes sense for you to have a key.”

Obviously.

I let myself in and am immediately greeted by three very enthusiastic doggos.

Moose, the Great Dane mix who thinks he’s a Chihuahua, nearly knocks me over trying to climb into my arms. At roughly the size of a small horse, this is not physically feasible, but I appreciate his optimism.

“Down, Moose! We’ve talked about this, buddy. You’re too big to be cradled like a baby.”

Scout, the Border Collie-Australian Shepherd mix with one floppy ear and one alert ear, circles my legs in a herding pattern while making little whining noises of joy. His tail creates a small windstorm.

And Buster, the chunky Corgi-Beagle mix, sits politely at my feet with his tail wagging so hard his entire backend shimmies. He’s probably my favorite, though I’d never admit that out loud. It’s probably because of the short legs and food-motivated personality.

Relatable.

They’re a hurricane of excitement because, at present, I’m their second favorite hooman on the planet. I know someday that will change when Clark gets serious with one of the women he dates, but for now, I hold a top ranking. It’s a position I cling to for dear life.

“Okay, okay! Yes, I love you and you and you. You’re the bestest boys. We’re going for a walk. Let me just—no, Scout, I can’t put your leash on while you’re doing zoomies around the coffee table.”

I make a clicking sound with my tongue and gesture with my hands. The three of them abruptly stop and sit at attention.

I shower them with praise for remembering that I’m the alpha dog in our pack. Well, technically, Clark is, but they obey me better because I always have treats at the ready. I also understand this in the depths of my stomach because snacks!

One of Clark’s Nebraska Knights hoodies hangs on a hook by the door and I grab it since it’s a little chillier here than I expected. He’ll never know. As I pull it over my head, I inhale his scent—fresh pine and him.

Home.

We make our way out of the building and toward Main Street, careful not to disturb Mrs. Kirby and Princess Elizabeth—the woman thinks her Maltese is perfect, but she could really stand to learn some manners. Both of them could.

The early spring day is perfect—sunny but not too warm, with a light breeze that carries the scent of fresh bread and baked goods from the Busy Bee. My stomach rumbles in response. That will be my treat after I get some energy out of these guys.

The dogs and I do our usual route down Main Street, past Spaglietti’s and The Lunch Box, around the corner to 4th Street and on the path that goes past the old train depot and out toward the corn fields.

The boys are well-behaved, even when some squirrels—finally free of the cold winter blanket—play chase in the treetops.

The path loops back around, offering a hazy view of the Omaha skyline in the distance and the Ice Palace to the east. I get flutters whenever I think of Clark somewhere in the building, powerful with his broad shoulders and brawny build.

He’s not as tall as some of the other guys on the team, but he can stop the puck like nobody’s business.

It’s worth noting that the flutters aren’t from delicate butterflies. No, they’re caused by a herd of buffalo because I have a great, big crush on my best friend.