Chapter 21
PIP
The rumble of traffic fades as we alight from the limousine at Central Park West. I’ve been to Central Park many times, yet the sight of the sleek skyscrapers stretching up to the sky always thrills me.
Holding Piglet in my arms, I walk with Kit to our location close to the Central Park lake.
“He sure is a cute fella,” says Kit, scratching underneath the puppy’s chin. “And he won by a landslide. But I have to tell you, more than a few of the Snickerdoodles were quite vocal that you should have let Snickers choose the Golden Retriever.”
“Why would they care?”
“Because they’re his fans,” says Kit, with a little laugh. “Loyal to a fault. But don’t worry, most of them are thumbs-up about your looming nuptials. They want to see Snickers happily married. Of course, they wish it was to themselves...”
We both giggle.
“Aside from that, they’re loving the photos we’re posting of the two of you. Take a look.”
Kit stops walking and swipes through a flurry of Instagram posts featuring Snickers and me. They include pictures taken from the boardroom interview with Vanessa Sinclair and the pet adoption center.
The cutest one is of Snickers and me together, carrying Piglet like he’s a newborn baby.
“Five hundred comments already from fans who adore your romance in just the past hour. Likely thousands more by the time the day is done. Clare’s plan is pure gold.”
I take another look at the picture of Snickers and me with Piglet.
Kit used her talent to alter the image, sharpening our eyes and adding a flush of excitement to our skin tone.
But what Photoshop tools did she use to make us look like we’re incredibly in love?
“Now I can see why Clare considers you her national treasure.”
“I may have taken the photographs, but Lila applied the graphic artistry.”
"Oh right. The Snickerdoodle fan club creator. Have you ever met her?"
"No. Hasn't been a need. We're sending digital files back and forth. But maybe it's time. I'll invite her to come to the shoot on the last day."
We walk quickly to the spot where Clare, Snickers, and the paparazzi have set up for a shot by the lake. Standing with them is a tall, long-haired man.
He wears an odd leather belt with holders for clippers, a pair of scissors, and other silver accessories.
“Our star has arrived,” Clare announces smiling at me. “Pip, meet Claude. He’ll be responsible for fluffing up your Piglet before the shoot.”
“Fluff him up?” I pull my new dog towards my chest as Claude comes toward me.
“He’s a dog stylist. We need to get Piglet fresh-looking for the camera.”
I try to resist, but Claude gently pries the yipping, resistant Piglet from my arms.
“He’ll be fine,” says Kit, flashing me a reassuring smile before she goes to organize the paparazzi and the production assistants.
But I’m not so sure as I watch Claude comb through Piglet’s matted fur, eliciting sharp cries from my adorable new dog.
“Don’t worry,” says Snickers, his tone kind as he stands next to me. “It probably hurts you more to watch Piglet being combed, than the combing hurts him.”
“How would you know? You’re not a dog. Though I admit, you sometimes act like it.”
Before Snickers can retort, Clare strides toward us and waves to a bench by the lake.
“Take your places, you two. Be romantic and relatable. America’s Sweethearts, taking a peaceful moment by the ducks. Let’s ooze charm, people.”
Claude hands me a freshened Piglet, his button nose clear of gunk and his black fur newly glossed.
“Here you go, Piglet,” I say, snapping on his leash. “First day on the set.”
As everyone scrambles into place, Piglet waddles ahead, trailing attitude with each step.
He pauses to throw a passive-aggressive snort at Snickers.
“With his attitude, you’d think he owns the park,” Snickers murmurs, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
“You’d better hope he doesn’t, or he’ll evict you,” I reply, biting back a grin.
Clare claps her hands, instantly cutting through the din as assistants shuffle into formation.
“Okay, everyone! Reporters behind the bench, please. Cameras will roll shortly. Pip, Snickers—settle in and look natural.” She hammers the last word as though it’s an impossible hurdle for us.
Snickers drops onto the bench with exaggerated ease, his arm lazily draping across the backrest just shy of my shoulders.
I sit with deliberate composure next to him. Piglet circles my legs twice before plopping unceremoniously at my feet, completely uninterested in participating further.
Clare’s assistants wave the reporters closer. Slowly, they file in like a swarm of bees buzzing with anticipation.
Brightly colored portable stools snap open, and the media team takes their seats. Sara stands out from the others by virtue of her youth and shy, downcast eyes.
“Alright!” Clare announces from her podium-like perch nearby. “Let’s start the Q&A session! Questions must be light and friendly. Snickers and Pip, answer in sound bites, please! Work that non-verbal chemistry!”
Clare gives a signal, and points at a female reporter to ask the first question.
Her cheeks flush as she raises her voice in sheer bubbly enthusiasm. “Who said ‘I love you’ first?”
I freeze for half a second, but Snickers doesn’t skip a beat. He leans back with an air of lazy authority, his arm curling around my shoulders once more. “Pip, of course. I’m a hard man to resist.”
“Au contraire. Snickers was the first to say I love you. I just took my sweet time agreeing.”
The woman beams, scribbling furiously in her notepad.
The questions continue, varying from light teasing about Valentine’s Day plans to inquiries about how we’ve “changed each other” as a couple.
Snickers, always good at stealing the spotlight, mesmerizes the reporters with his roguish charm.
I play along, offering just enough sass and genuine warmth toward my “fiancé” to sell the illusion.
Then, a quieter voice cuts through the buzz.
I turn, surprised to see it's 'silent Sara.'
"Snickers," she says, her voice low and hesitant, "if Pip didn’t exist, who would you love instead?"
Odd question.
I notice the reporters and photographers arching eyebrows at one another.
"Whoa, let's not give Pip any ideas," Snickers says with his usual magnetism. "Piglet and I value our lives too much to even suggest there might be alternatives."
The reporters chuckle, and just like that, the tension slips away.
Kit claps her hands briskly.
“Okay. That’s a rap," says Kit to the media team. "The caterers have lunch set up, so have at it."
Snickers nudges me slightly with his shoulder. “We make a pretty convincing pair, huh?”
I glance sidelong at him. “Careful, Snicks. You’re almost starting to believe your own hype.”
As if bored by our repartee, Piglet huffs loudly, waddles away a few steps, then drops onto the grass.
Snickers crouches, a hint of tenderness flitting across his face as he scratches behind Piglet’s ears.
“Hey, little fella,” he says, before looking up at me. “I think he likes me.”
But Piglet snaps his head away. His ears flatten. Then he lets forth a reprimanding yip.
“He’s just playing hard to get like some people I know. But I'll win him over in the end." Snickers winks. "May I show you my favorite part of Central Park? I haven't been here since I was a kid, but I feel confident I can show you the way."