8. Just Like Positive #2
“Seriously, though,” I say, turning back to my friends. “Should I even be looking for space? It’s not like I could get one as part of that artist’s co-op. Pretty sure dog training is not an art form up there with pottery or photography.”
“It should be though,” Bridget says. “Just this morning, a guest’s dog bounded up to the front desk and barked right at my face. Getting him to stop seemed as magical to me as painting a sunset.”
“Just takes patience and training—you reward them when they’re quiet,” I say.
She seems to give that some thought, then nods. “That does make sense.”
“What if I find a space somewhere and rent it, but the clients don’t come through?”
“That is a dilemma,” Ripley says thoughtfully. “Maybe look, but don’t commit until it’s real?”
Bridget straightens, then lifts a hand like she’s in class, which is a habit she’s hardly broken. The brainiac. “What about the dog daycare?” she asks, gesturing down the street where the windows have been covered with brown paper for more than a month. “Have they reopened yet?”
“No,” I say, my shoulders slumping. I used to pick up shifts there pretty regularly, bathing and grooming the four-legged friends, but it closed late in the spring.
“Okay, so maybe just start looking around town,” Bridget suggests. “And if you do find something…then push for the clients.”
Maybe there’s a small, shared space on Main Street. A little sliver of a storefront I could somehow afford to rent from someone who doesn’t mind having paws underfoot all day.
With what money?
Shut up, inner voice.
I’m a woman on a mission.
* * *
The next day, I canvas the heart of Darling Springs, starting with Blue Roses, the tattoo shop.
“Hey, Delilah,” I say to the owner, a pink-haired woman with colorful floral sleeves cascading down her pale arms. She’s sketching on her tablet behind the counter. “Any chance you’ve got a booth for a dog trainer?”
She arches a brow. “Dog training and tattoos? I know combo shops are all the rage, but that’s a crossover I’ve never heard before.”
“It’s niche,” I say, deadpan. “But it’ll catch on.”
She laughs, but it’s a doubtful sound. “I’m not so sure a barking dog will help me concentrate on making perfect permanent body art.”
“Fair point,” I say.
“But maybe try the gym? They might have room.”
“Ooh! That’s a good idea,” I say. A gym space would have that sturdy vibe that a dog trainer needs. But when I stop by the local gym, the owner says he leased their only extra room to a juice maker.
Next up: The Slippery Dipper, the lotions-and-potions shop that smells like citrus, cedar, and something vaguely horny. Smells familiar—is that what Sawyer smelled like?
Maybe, but I shove those ideas out of my head.
“Hey,” I say to Noah, the fair-skinned, red-headed guy who’s run this shop since forever.
Not only does he have the voice of a sexy angel—he often croons the show-stopping finale in the annual Darling Springs Community Cabaret Theater Fundraiser—he’s also something of a romance soothsayer in town, known for his predictions.
“Do you ever rent out any space? Like, what about the section in the back where you make the homemade soaps?”
He’s quiet for a moment, giving it some thought. “Love the idea, but I worry the dogs might eat the soap ingredients. They don’t always have the most discerning taste.”
And…he’s right there too. Dogs and anything edible is a bad combo, because everything is edible to a dog. “And if any of the dogs shed, you might get hair in your soaps.”
“True too. But why don’t you give the bookstore a shot? Everyone loves dogs and books.”
They do. I head for the door, stopping briefly with my hand on the knob, not wanting to miss my chance for…advice? No, it’s more like…curiosity. Yes, that’s it. “Hey, Noah—if a woman says it’s a one-time thing, does the guy believe her? Or does he, I don’t know…try to find her?”
My voice pitches up at the end, full of foolish hope.
Noah doesn’t answer right away—just studies me with that quiet look that’s made him the town’s unofficial romance guru. “The smart ones listen. The good ones ask if she meant it.” A pause. “The guys worth keeping? They tend to show up.”
His words sit heavier than I want them to. I nod, say nothing about his advice, then paste on a smile. “Can’t wait to hear what number’s up your sleeve for the summer fundraiser.”
“You and me both,” he jokes.
I push open the door before I start thinking too much.
I pop into A Likely Story next, pausing to eye the built-in reading nook. I weave between shelves, hoping a cozy little corner for dog training will magically appear. It doesn’t.
Eventually, I make my way to the community theater, where I find my mom in the second row.
“Let’s take it from the top,” she calls out as I slip in next to her. “A one, two, three, four!”
The local a cappella group—made up of off-duty firefighters from around the county—hums Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” in full uniform. “The only thing that could make this better is if they stripped,” I whisper when the song ends.
Mom drops her jaw theatrically. “You have a naughty mind. I don’t know where that came from.”
“Gee, I wonder.”
She removes her rhinestone-encrusted glasses and polishes them on her bright-red blouse. “Take five,” she calls out, and as the men and women first responders shuffle offstage, she turns to me. “What’s wrong, darling? You look sad.”
“I need a space for my dog training if I’m going to make a real go of it,” I say. “Do you have anything here?” I ask, glancing around the auditorium with the rows and rows of seats.
“For dog training? Well, unless we’re doing Legally Blonde again and need a stage for Bruiser, I don’t know if it’s the best fit.”
She’s right. A theater isn’t ideal. And this town is getting more expensive by the minute. I don’t even know for sure if these new clients are coming through.
“But I’ll think on it. And in the meantime, I can ask Zuri whatever became of the dog daycare?”
“Ooh, good idea,” I say, since Mom’s good friends with the former manager.
That night, as I’m working on my social media by posting some training videos of Captain and me, my phone buzzes. There’s a text from my brother, Jay. He’s a sports reporter in San Francisco, covering the local hockey teams and their winning ways.
Jay: Warning—Mom is talking cabaret fundraiser again. I bet she’s going to try to get us to perform a piano and guitar solo.
Chloe: Better than when she tried to have us sing “As Long As You’re Mine.”
I can feel his shudder up the highway before his reply even lands.
Jay: Don’t remind me.
I’m tapping out a response about that horror of our childhood, but also the way we got out of that particular performance with a surprise case of double laryngitis, when another text lands.
Veronica: Just wanted to introduce you to my friends.
Thirty minutes later, I have two new actress clients and their rescue Mastiffs. This unexpected glow-up is a very good problem to have.
* * *
The next morning, Bridget has enlisted me for an early hot girl walk, so I’ve got Captain with us and we’re reviewing my recon on all the spaces when we pass the old dog daycare—and I stop in my tracks.
The brown paper’s down. The lights are on. And there’s a brand-new name painted on the windows in bright-blue letters: Dog Tails.
Cute.
“When did this happen?” I ask, since Bridget knows everything about downtown.
“I’m going to have to fire myself as town gossip. This is a major fail in my Darling Springs intel,” she says, holding out her hands in a classic no idea gesture.
With Captain’s leash in one hand, I cup my hands around my face and peer inside—and holy shit—that’s Zuri.
The one Mom was going to talk to, a statuesque woman with long braids twisted in a bun on top of her head and tattoos of vines snaking down the rich, deep brown skin on her toned arms, courtesy of Delilah’s artistry.
She’s writing something on the chalkboard behind the counter—Group Play, I think.
It’s listed after the prices of various baths—some with lavender shampoo, no doubt harvested from Ripley’s lavender farm.
The place looks airy and light, a far cry from the dark and, honestly, dingy vibe the prior orange-and-brown space had.
I rap on the locked door.
Zuri glances up, and when she sees me, her whole face lights up. She hustles over and unlocks it. “Chloe! Your mom and I were just talking about you.”
“I swear I didn’t drive my car into her mailbox when I was seventeen—it was Bridget,” I say, grabbing Bridget’s arm.
Bridget shoots me a look. “That one was all you, honey.”
I bring my finger to my lips. “Shh.”
Zuri winks my way. “I still haven’t told your mom it was really you and not some random stranger.”
“Bless you for keeping my secret and Bridget’s,” I say.
“Again, not me,” Bridget adds.
“Of course, of course,” I say, then peer behind Zuri at the low walls and play zones—little gated areas with spit-shined concrete flooring, fluffy dog beds, and toy bins.
It’s perfect. And so much brighter and more inviting than it was before.
Captain lifts his snout, checking it out too.
“I thought this place was closing for good.”
“It was,” she says, reaching down and stroking my pup’s head. “But it’s being reopened as a franchise. Oops. Secret’s out.”
“It sounds like this is a good change, right?”
“Well, they kept me, so it must be,” she says, grinning. She gestures to the hallway past the play area. “Plus, all the grooming and the primping stations have been upgraded. It’s seriously fancy now. For the discerning dog.”
I laugh. “And the bougie owners.”
“We love them,” Zuri says.
I glance around again—and wouldn’t you know it? There’s a small nook right near the front desk that would be perfect for training sessions. My brain spins forward, and I nearly trip over the possibilities. I point to it. “Zuri…any chance I could lease that space?”