Chapter 43
SNICKERS
Isit on my white-on-white sofa, Scotch in hand, staring at the Manhattan skyline.
The honeyed liquid catches the fading late afternoon sunlight.
Five o’clock. The universally sanctioned hour when a man can drink without attracting commentary.
I’m not an alcoholic. But today… today, I need this.
I had expected this to be the final day of this absurd media campaign, the last staged kiss, the last carefully curated moment.
One more fraudulent fairytale before Pip and I walked away from all of this.
And then tonight—the pretend wedding.
And seeing Pip once again, in that gown.
I exhale slowly.
It wasn’t just the wedding gown—though if you were the kind of man who liked his women wrapped in soft pearl buttons and satin, you wouldn’t complain.
No, it was her.
Pip doesn’t just wear the styles of the past. She absorbs them.
They cling to her like old music, haunting and effortlessly elegant. The person and the aesthetic become one. The result…
Exquisite.
Even after I’d spent six months convincing myself Pip was temporary. Especially after she snuck out early morning after we spent the most incredible night together.
What's going to happen tomorrow when the charade is all over?
Report to the office, prepare to be cross-examined by Harrison Blake and our antiquated board of directors?
I feel that familiar yearning rise up in my soul. Take off. Leave all the corporate bullshit behind me.
Yet am I ready to do that?
The only other option is to stay. But what would Manhattan mean without Pip? Though our 'fake romance' would have ended, we could always date.
But to what end? After Kellie's death I promised myself I'd never love another.
For ten years, I've held out. But Pip is testing the waters...
The phone rings, shaking me out of my reverie.
I set my Scotch down, inhaling once before grabbing the receiver.
"Excuse me, is this Mr. Woodward?" an official-sounding voice asks.
"Yes, this is he. How did you get this number? Who is this?"
"Sir, this is The Velvet Paw salon."
I frown. Velvet Paw? The odd name rings a bell. I remember was one of the high-end salons I called to book an appointment after Piglet's mud episode.
"Oh. That’s all taken care of now," I say shortly. "Thank you. Goodbye?—"
"Wait, Mr. Woodward. I’m calling you because you’re listed as the emergency contact on Piglet’s collar tag."
Something in my chest tightens. An odd sense of foreboding creeps in.
"Has something happened to Piglet?"
"We’re not sure yet, sir. Your dog was here at The Velvet Paw in the Plaza Hotel. The attendant removed his collar for a bath. Then while he stepped away, Piglet jumped out of the tub and ran off. We’ve been searching, but…"
I’m already halfway to my feet.
"Did you call Miss Fletcher?"
"Yes, we called her number as well. We left a message, but she hasn't called back yet."
That’s odd.
The uneasy feeling settles deeper.
"I’ll be there immediately. Keep searching. There’s a generous reward."
"We don’t accept rewards, sir, but we’ll continue looking."
I hang up. Already moving. Already knowing—something isn’t right.
I grab the tuxedo I had laid out for tonight.
A rush of something sharp—not quite fear, but not far from it—cuts through my chest.
Piglet is a smart dog. He wouldn’t just run off.
But he’s also daring.
I hope I get there in time.
It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the Plaza Hotel. I don’t even remember half the trip. Just that the moment the car stops, I’m out, striding across the gleaming marble foyer.
The salon is tucked into the basement level. Yet it's all polished glass, sleek finishes. The kind of place that exists solely for people who insist their pets deserve five-star treatment.
The waiting room is filled with pampered, pedigreed dogs. A Great Dane lounges near the window, a Yorkie with a rhinestone collar perches in an attendant’s lap.
The scent of expensive grooming products—that clean, perfumed crispness—lingers in the air.
I rush toward the receptionist, already impatient.
"Somebody called me about my dog—a French Bulldog puppy named Piglet?"
"Yes, sir," she says with a nod. "One moment. Our customer service executive will speak with you."
A moment later, a woman appears—crisp white suit, confident stride, her face a mask of professionalism.
She smiles, but there’s something measured in her expression.
"I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Woodward," she says smoothly. "We take the utmost pride in our services, but it seems that in a moment of distraction—well, your dog escaped."
I exhale slowly. Not the words I wanted to hear.
"How do we find him?" I ask, my voice tight.
She takes a steady breath. "We were hoping you might assist. French Bulldogs have an exceptional sense of smell. If you walk around the hotel, he might pick up your scent and return to you."
He must be frightened right now—scared and wet.
"So, you just want me to walk around aimlessly?" I ask, irritation sharpening my tone.
"Yes," she says, unfazed. "I'm sure we'll find him, Mr. Woodward. The Plaza has doormen stationed at all exits, and of course, a French Bulldog isn’t capable of opening doors on his own."
"No," I agree. "But he could have slipped out when a guest entered."
She takes a breath, exhaling through her nose. "That’s a possibility."
A possibility I don’t have time for.
I turn sharply, already dialing Pip’s number.
No answer.
I grind my back teeth but remain moving.
As a last resort, I call Kit. Her voice is sharp with concern the second she picks up.
"Oh my God, Snickers—that’s terrible!" she says when I explain what happened.
"Did Clare authorize this service?"
"I don't believe so."
It would be odd for Pip to schedule a grooming service for Piglet, especially since she enjoys doing these things for him herself.
Something isn’t right.
"Where is Pip now?"
"Not sure. But her roommate Keesha might know something. Hold on, I’ll get her number."
A few minutes later, I call Keesha.
"Hello," I say. "This is Sheldon Woodward."
A brief pause. Then?—
"Oh! Snickers! I was looking forward to meeting you!"
"Same here," I say briskly. "But listen—I’m at the Plaza."
I quickly explain the situation.
Silence on the other end. Then:
"Wait. Piglet needed a bath? That doesn’t make sense. I just groomed him. His coat was shining when Pip left. There was no reason for another bath. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless Vanessa Sinclair ordered it."
I feel my jaw tighten. "What does Vanessa Sinclair have to do with anything?"
"Pip went to the Plaza early because Vanessa Sinclair's assistant scheduled an interview with her."
Something cold slides through my chest.
"An interview?" Pip hadn't mentioned it to me, but then again, she probably forgot after the drama of this afternoon.
But Clare would have said something, surely.
And if there was to be an interview, why wouldn't I be a part of it, like before?
A rush of instinctive dread snaps into place.
"Keesha, I need to go. Call me the second you hear from Pip. I'll do the same."
Like most high-profile New Yorkers who frequently find themselves in her gossip column, I have Vanessa Sinclair on speed dial.
In just minutes, I have my answer. No interview had been scheduled by the office.
What now?