Chapter 7
Avery
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the pet store aisle holding a shopping list that looks like I'm planning to survive the apocalypse with six small mammals.
Puppy food, bowls, toys, beds, leashes, collars, training pads, cleaning supplies, and approximately seventeen other things the overly enthusiastic store clerk insisted were absolutely essential.
“Do they really need organic, grain-free, large-breed formula?” Liam asks, holding up a bag of dog food.
“Unless you want six puppies with upset stomachs destroying your apartment even more thoroughly than they already have, yes.” I stifle a laugh. This is insane, but for once, it’s not my insane that’s driving me insane.
Seeing Liam with those puppies shows me he's capable of caring about something other than himself, and it's terrifying how much that affects me.
He winces and adds the food to our cart, which is already overflowing with puppy paraphernalia. I'm doing mental math on the total cost and trying not to think about how this is definitely not in my job description.
“What about these?” He holds up a set of tiny sweaters with little bones printed on them.
“Liam. They have fur. They don't need sweaters.”
He pouts a little. “But they're so small. What if they get cold?”
I stare at him. This is the same man who once showed up to practice in a helicopter and got thrown out of a nightclub for starting a champagne fight. Now he's worried about puppies getting cold.
“Fine. Get the sweaters.”
His smile is so wide, it makes my chest tighten. Which is ridiculous, because this entire situation is ridiculous. I should be home with a glass of wine and a good book, not enabling my crisis-prone client's latest impulsive decision.
But when he carefully picks out a different sweater for each puppy, reading the sizes with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, I melt.
The cashier's eyes widen when she rings up our total. “Are you starting a puppy daycare?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, watching Liam hand over his credit card without even looking at the amount. Must be nice to make impulsive six-hundred-dollar pet store runs without breaking a sweat.
Back at his apartment, the real work begins. “Okay,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “You start cleaning up the biological hazards. I'll set up their feeding station.”
“Why do I get the poop duty?”
“Because they're your puppies.”
“Technically, they're rescue puppies. That makes them our puppies.”
The casual way he says ‘our’ shouldn't make me feel anything, but it does. I ignore it and focus on opening dog food bags and measuring portions.
For the next two hours, we work as a team. Liam follows my directions without his usual attitude, and I find myself laughing at his running commentary on puppy behavior.
“That one, what should we call him? He’s definitely the troublemaker,” he says, pointing to a golden male who's systematically shredding a rope toy. “Look at his face. He knows exactly what he's doing.”
“Nova,” I suggest with a straight face.
Liam's mouth drops open in mock offense. “Excuse me? I am not a troublemaker.”
“You bought six puppies on impulse and called me at eight PM for help.”
He grins, and my heart flutters. Damn this man. “Troublemakers have more fun.”
He points at the female who is sitting primly while her brothers create chaos around her. “That’s Avery.”
I laugh. “Why would you name her after me?”
“Look at her.” He crouches down beside the puppy, who gazes at him with serious eyes. “She's the only one not getting into trouble. And see how she keeps looking at the door? She's already planning her escape route in case things get too chaotic.”
I swallow a lump in my throat.
“She's also the most beautiful one,” he adds quietly, looking up at me with those dark eyes that make my pulse skip. “And she seems to think she's too good for all this mess, but she hasn't left yet.”
Heat creeps up my neck. He's definitely not just talking about the puppy.
Discomfort comes over me. I don’t want to be invested in this man and his puppies. “We're not naming them.”
“Why not? They need names.”
“Because you're going to get attached, and then you'll be heartbroken when you have to give them up.”
He stops arranging puppy beds and looks at me. “Who says I'm giving them up?”
“Liam. You travel constantly. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone six dogs.”
“I can learn.”
He's serious about this. Completely, impractically serious. “They'll grow up,” I point out. “Six full-grown golden retrievers in a penthouse apartment?”
“I'll figure it out.”
I want to argue, to point out all the logical reasons this is a terrible idea. But this is not the time. “Fine,” I say. “But you need someone to watch over them when you’re at work.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
It must be nice to be the kind of person who just goes with the flow like that. Who makes decisions based on feeling instead of spreadsheets and risk assessments.
I've spent my entire adult life planning every detail, anticipating every possible outcome, building safety nets for my safety nets.
We're complete opposites. Liam throws himself into situations headfirst. I calculate the depth of the water before I even consider getting my toes wet.
Even if he wasn't my client, it would never work between us.
People like Liam get bored with people like me. Eventually, the novelty of someone who challenges them wears off. Just like it did with Kai.
By eleven PM, we've managed to establish something resembling order. The puppies have been fed, walked around the building's courtyard, and convinced to use training pads instead of Liam’s expensive rugs.
We've moved furniture, created safe spaces, and puppy-proofed everything dangerous within reach.
I'm exhausted and covered in puppy hair. Liam looks equally disheveled, his hair sticking up from where tiny paws have climbed all over him.
“I think they're finally settling down,” he says quietly, looking at the pile of sleepy puppies we've arranged on a massive dog bed in his living room.
I sink onto his couch, every muscle aching. “They'll probably be up again in a few hours. Puppies don't sleep through the night at first.”
Liam settles on the couch beside me.
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the rise and fall of sleeping puppy bellies.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For coming over. For not telling me I'm an idiot.”
“Oh, you're definitely an idiot,” I say. “But you're an idiot with good intentions.”
He laughs. “I couldn't let them die, Avery. I know it's impractical and stupid, and I have no idea what I'm doing, but I couldn't just scroll past and do nothing.”
I grow serious. “You’re going to need someone to look after them when you’re not home.”
“I know. I’m not a complete idiot,” he says with a cute grin.
“They're lucky you found them,” I say.
“We're lucky we found them.”
There's that ‘we’ again. I should correct him, remind him that I'm just here temporarily, that this isn't my responsibility. But I'm too tired to argue, and honestly, looking at these sleeping puppies, I feel lucky too.
The female with the white chest patch—Avery—stirs and makes a soft sound. Without thinking, I lean forward and gently stroke her fur.
“She likes you,” Liam says.
“She likes everyone. She's a puppy.”
“No, this one's particular. She only stops crying when you or I hold her.”
I look at him sideways. “You've known her for six hours.”
“Sometimes you just know.”
Again, we’re not talking about puppies anymore. I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close we're sitting, how his arm is resting along the back of the couch behind me. The same awareness from this morning's kiss comes flooding back.
“Liam,” I start, but I'm not sure what I'm going to say.
He turns toward me, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. His eyes drop to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze.
“I should go,” I say, but I don't move.
“I don’t want you to go.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin. It's such a gentle touch, so different from the commanding way he kissed me in my office.
“This is complicated,” I breathe.
“Everything about us is complicated.”
He's right. From the moment I found out he was going to be my client, everything about this situation has been complicated.
When Liam kisses me this time, it's different. Softer, more tentative, like he's asking permission instead of demanding it. I could pull away. I should pull away.
Instead, I kiss him back.
His mouth is sweet and patient, nothing like the aggressive claim from this morning. This feels like a question rather than a statement, and before I can stop myself, I'm answering with yes.
We break apart slowly, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. The puppies sleep on, oblivious to the fact that their carers have just crossed a line there's no uncrossing.
“Stay,” he whispers against my lips. “Just tonight.”
Warning bells go off in my head. This is Liam Novak. Nova. The man who's been photographed with more women than a rock star, who treats relationships like a revolving door.
I've been down this road before with Kai, and I know exactly how it ends. With me feeling like an idiot for thinking I was special.
But then I remember his words from this morning.
It meant nothing. I went home alone both nights.
It's insane, but I believe him.
One night. That's all this has to be. Tomorrow we can go back to being client and publicist, nothing more complicated than that. I can compartmentalize this, file it away as a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by exhaustion and unexpected intimacy.
It's just physical. A release of tension that's been building since Chicago.
My body is certainly voting in favor of the idea. Every nerve ending is humming with awareness, aching to be touched by those big hands that were so gentle with the puppies.
“Just tonight,” I say.