Chapter Three
It took less than three minutes for Delilah’s first day on the job to descend into disaster.
Actually, it had started to go downhill the moment she’d woken up and realized her alarm hadn’t gone off. Or maybe it had and she’d failed to hear it. Possibly she’d registered it ringing and had hit snooze twice while still half asleep.
Regardless, her late start hadn’t helped her feel calm and in control. Especially once she’d been granted her turn in the bathroom, which she shared with Zero, a particular no one had thought to mention to her prior to it becoming a stark reality. Once it was too late to change.
Not that she would have that option. She’d gladly packed her meager belongings, most of it art books and research notes, in three cardboard boxes, and no amount of recalculation increased that number, regardless of how hard she tried to pretend she had more to show for her life than this.
All of her clothes fit into the hatchback of her car, where she’d unceremoniously dumped the lot for the drive back out to the Flying Pig.
This was what four years spent in pursuit of her PhD had gotten her. Rootless and in the position of having to be a teeny bit misleading about her credentials so she’d have a place to live.
All that was about to change, though, thanks to the man she couldn’t make herself stop thinking of as her guardian angel—after all, he’d saved her. Once she trained his dogs, she’d no longer be misleading him, so that was her first order of business.
Settling into this amazing house had taken no time at all.
Her room had heavy antique furniture she suspected might be the real deal after she’d climbed into the solid four-poster bed.
The carved wood posts wound up toward the ceiling in tight spirals and the crossbars even had those floaty drapes, the kind that could be pulled shut, enclosing you in a cocoon of finery.
As the reigning queen of Ikea furniture, who could blame her for reveling in the luxury of this place? The house was like visiting a museum and not having to leave. No wonder she’d overslept.
But she’d vowed to make it up to her new employer, breezing by the kitchen to score a croissant filled with raspberry jam that tasted homemade and coffee that came from a God-honest drip brewer.
That worked for her and then some. She had nothing against pod coffee, or rather she didn’t think she did, but wouldn’t know because a pod coffeemaker cost more than her entire monthly grocery bill.
Drip coffee was heavenly. Especially when someone else had made it for her.
She took her breakfast outside to the wraparound porch, curious why the house had that empty feel to it.
No one had expressly told her what her day should look like, which suited her fine since she and go-with-the-flow had become fast friends before she could walk.
Who wanted to spend a gorgeous day like this one following a preordained agenda?
The moment she stepped across the threshold, though, a tangle of dogs barreled toward her, nearly knocking her over in their haste to beg for her croissant. Some choice words slipped out of the naughty variety.
She tottered but didn’t go down, balancing the earthenware mug in one hand and the pastry in the other. Not an ideal situation for using hand signals, normally the recommended first order of action. She’d have to use voice commands instead.
“Sit. All of you.”
That didn’t go over well. No shock. Dogs responded to body language, and hers must have been saying, “Come at me, bro.”
Will Turner, whom she’d already met, didn’t bother to act as if he liked her but seemed to think jumping at her croissant hand might score him a bite.
Elizabeth Swann threw herself prostrate at Delilah’s feet, shamelessly displaying her belly for a scratch, which would have been a neat trick considering the only human in a porch-wide radius had no free hands.
The other two dogs, one of whom wove in and out between her legs, leaving the other to get into a jumping contest with Will Turner, must be the captains.
Jack Sparrow and Barbossa, respectively, but she didn’t know which was which.
They were both Australian Shepherd mixes, black with white chests, clearly high strung and likely a bit at loose ends if they didn’t have anything to herd on a regular basis.
None of them had followed instructions. Because they knew she hadn’t done anything remotely resembling dog training in years? Or because they were that bad at listening?
This painting would be called Chaos Walking, perfectly suited for post-modern symbolism that utilized bold, heavy shapes flung across a canvas.
She tried again on the worst two offenders, taking a stab on the leaping Shepherd’s name, this time using her arms to indicate the downward motion. As best she could anyway, with her hands full.
“Sit, Will Turner. Sit, Captain Barbossa.”
Again, ignored. So she’d be starting from scratch with these four. Lower than scratch. She still didn’t know which captain was which.
That’s when she saw a little boy peeking around the corner of the house at the commotion.
Hunter, most likely. She smiled at him and waved the croissant, a mistake.
Will Turner saw it as his opportunity, or a red flag more likely, and snatched half of it from her hand, nearly taking off her fingers in the process.
“Human pastries aren’t on your conditioning plan,” she admonished him, staring balefully at the remaining bit of croissant clutched in her fingers.
Next time, she’d stay inside with her breakfast.
She couldn’t go in search of something else to eat and miss an opportunity to meet Hunter.
Carefully stepping over the knot of dogs who were now snarling at each other—if they could ignore her, she could ignore them—she crouched down near the boy, noting he had Sheridan’s green eyes and strawberry blond hair that looked like it had been cut with a pair of gardening shears.
Zero’s sister, whom she’d met last night, had apologized for her absent son, commenting that he often hung out down at the pond, and she hadn’t the heart to force him back into a routine yet.
As routines activated Delilah’s allergies, she had a feeling she and Hunter would get along famously.
“You must be Hunter,” she said, careful not to reach out.
Interacting with new kids wasn’t too far off from how she remembered being taught to approach new dogs. They both needed to learn immediately that she wasn’t a threat, that she meant business, and that she wasn’t going anywhere.
He stared at her. “You’re not supposed to feed Will Turner.”
Delilah laughed. “That looked voluntary to you? He’s the first candidate in line for obedience training, no question.”
“Are you the dog trainer?”
So solemn. His facial muscles hadn’t moved an iota since she’d first spied him cowering behind the corner of the house.
“I am. Which dog is your favorite?” she asked, hoping to engage him in conversation that might help her figure out her first steps with the dogs.
But Hunter was already shaking his head, zipped lips written all over his tight mouth.
What? Had she said something wrong?
“You don’t have a favorite? One of the captains would be a great dog to run around with. He’d chase a stick, and it would be really easy to teach him to fetch.”
The boy shook his head again and backed up, doing a bang-up clam impersonation.
This was why her bachelor’s degree said Art Specialist not Kid Specialist. But she’d watched her dad work with kids in the past while teaching them how to interact with their service dogs. Granted, that had been observation only. It couldn’t be too much different to copy him, though.
“He’s afraid of the dogs.”
Zero’s voice hit her right between the shoulder blades. Oh, probably not literally. But she felt it there in the form of a shiver that shouldn’t be so pronounced.
That was her only excuse for shooting to her feet and bobbling the forgotten cup in her hands, promptly spilling half her coffee. The brown puddle spread across the slats, draining through the cracks in the porch as she watched.
“Good morning,” she croaked and took a sip of what little breakfast she had left, strictly as an excuse to steady herself. “Afraid of dogs how? Like he won’t go near them or is afraid to touch them?”
That’s when she remembered he’d mentioned his nephew’s fear yesterday and she’d forgotten. What a great way to announce to everyone that she had no idea what she was doing.
Zero contemplated her for a moment, his brown hair flopping down over his forehead, almost reaching his intriguing scar, which made a girl itch to run her fingers through the disheveled mess, just to smooth it back. And have an excuse to touch him.
“All of the above,” he said.
Well, at least he’d answered her instead of calling out the fact that he’d already told her about his nephew’s dog phobia.
She hadn’t seen Zero Renshaw since yesterday, but she’d heard him moving around in his room, which marked the first time she’d paid a bit of attention to anyone’s activity through the walls.
But there was something about his movements that fascinated her.
He did nothing extra, always opting for economy of scale, as if he planned out exactly what he’d do and in what order, like how he’d curl his fingers around his coffee cup, for example.
All at once, she wondered how he might curl those same fingers around her shoulder as he leaned in to murmur something in her ear.
Whatever he said would be coated in his amazing voice, both sweet and warm as it washed through her via osmosis.
She’d call that painting Dreams Are Made of This and use cotton candy pinks and blues in a swirly Impressionist style.
As pleasant of a daydream as that might be, Zero was not a job perk.