Chapter 27
SNICKERS
“Good evening, sir,” the concierge says as I enter the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental Residence. “We’ve placed the dog shampoo and other items you requested in your apartment.”
“Thank you,” I say, heading into the private elevator with Piglet tucked under my arm.
The moment the elevator doors glide open, Piglet breaks free. I lunge, but too late. He shakes himself violently, splattering mud and drops of filth across the white carpet.
His snub nose tilts upward, as if the apartment is unworthy of his presence.
“Don’t even think about it,” I growl as his gaze zeroes in on the cloud-white sectional sofa.
The canine hesitates. He stares back at me with what looks like a human smirk.
Then, because he’s Piglet, he rushes forward anyway. He plants a deliberate paw print on the sofa before hopping back down, satisfied with his work.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, scooping him up and marching straight to the bathroom.
Steam curls from the tub as it fills.
Fresh towel? Check. Shampoo? Right where the concierge left it.
Patience? Zero.
“You’re ruining my evening,” I inform the dog, setting him on the mosaic tile floor.
Piglet yawns dramatically in response.
I grab my phone, barking at Siri to find me a dog grooming tutorial on YouTube.
Within seconds, I’m subjected to the perkiness of an online dog expert. Her enthusiasm for sudsy affection feels deeply misaligned with the mood in the room.
“Hold still, Piglet,” I grunt, wrestling with the stubborn shamrock sweater. The dog squirms and kicks, twisting his body like a furry tornado before I finally yank it free.
As soon as I pop the Frenchie into the water, he lets out an indignant yip.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Pip.
Her timing couldn’t be worse.
I swipe the screen and put the call on Bluetooth, juggling dog and shampoo.
“Pip,” I say smoothly, flexing my Cary Grant charm like a defense mechanism. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She’s silent for a beat. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight. “I’m just checking on Piglet. Is he okay?”
I glance at the Frenchie, his paws clawing the rim of the tub, plotting a quick escape.
“He’s wonderful,” I say quickly, intercepting him mid-lunge. “Really relaxed. Totally at home.”
“Relaxed?” Pip repeats, obviously suspicious. “Piglet? Are we talking about the same dog?”
“Relaxed,” I repeat breezily, lowering the water in the tub to a more manageable level.
“He’s in my master bedroom right now, snuggled under the covers with his favorite stuffed bunny. I’ll send you a picture. ‘Adorable’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
Pip exhales—a mix of relief and something softer.
“Wow. I wouldn’t have guessed he’d settle in like that so fast.”
I glance down at Piglet, wriggling in my grasp, clearly planning his next rebellion.
“Look, Pip, I’ll see you tonight. Bye!”
Once I’m off the phone, Piglet thrashes as I work the shampoo into his fur, leaving us both drenched.
By the time I pull him from the tub and set him down, his wet, towel-wrapped body is too exhausted to even produce a wiggle.
I let out a long exhale.
For the first time tonight, I think I might’ve won a round.