Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
STAYING AWAY…
Max
I ring the doorbell with my checkbook ready.
The door swings open to reveal a man in his forties who squints at me, then does a double-take.
"Hold on—you're Max Kensington." He whips around towards the interior of the house.
"Babe! Max Kensington is standing on our porch!
" Back to me, with an apologetic grin: "My wife follows your every move. Gail! Get out here!"
Perfect. A fan. This might be easier than I thought.
Moments later, Gail appears, clutching her bathrobe closed at the neck, blonde hair sticking up on one side. Her free hand flutters between smoothing her hair and reaching for mine. "Mr. Kensington! What an unexpected honor. Would you care to step inside?"
That's when I spot her—Piper, the reason for my impromptu visit.
The pit bull bounds up behind Gail's legs, her whole body vibrating with excitement rather than just her tail.
Something in my chest softens. This shelter mutt, once abandoned and unwanted, will soon have two different parties trying to have her. I can see why Celeste wants her.
I check my watch and adjust my stance. "Look, I've got a meeting soon, so I'll be direct. I want Piper. Your dog. And I'm prepared to pay whatever it takes." I run a hand through my hair, trying to appear casual.
The man's eyebrow inches upward. "Whatever it takes?"
"Name your price." My gaze drifts past him to the modest living room beyond.
Outside in the driveway sits a weathered Corolla beside a Nissan that's seen better days.
I could write a check that would transform their lives—pay off this house, replace those cars, set up college funds.
One signature from me, and their financial worries vanish.
It's crude, maybe, throwing money at a problem like this.
But when I picture Celeste's face lighting up when she sees Piper again...
well, what else is money for, if not moments like that?
The man’s eyes light up, but Gail shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Our kids are in love with this dog. We can’t part with her.”
“One million,” I say, my checkbook ready to go.
“Are you serious?” the man asks. Then he turns to Gail. “One million, Gail. For Piper. We can go down and get another dog just like her. We can’t turn this down.”
Gail shakes her head. “Hugh, some things don’t have a price,” she says pleasantly. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kensington. But would like to come in and have a cup of tea and cookies?”
I exhale slowly. Maybe I should up the ante to something truly ridiculous, though a million dollars already seems pretty damn ridiculous.
But Gail's steady gaze tells me everything – this isn't about money for her.
It irks me, but I can't help respecting her backbone.
They're clearly not wealthy, but she's standing her ground – some bonds can't be broken with a check.
Hugh's face darkens with frustration, but then I spot the real complication – twin girls, barely four years old, mirror images of each other.
They wrap themselves around Piper, who squirms with delight, licking their cheeks while they dissolve into laughter.
I find myself shaking my head. Of course – dogs burrow into your heart in no time, especially when little kids are involved.
"Babe," Hugh says, voice tight. "We could pay off the mortgage. Set up college funds."
Gail's expression softens toward him but remains resolute. "Hugh, I've fallen for this dog, and so have Abigail and Charlotte. You're not the one who'll deal with their heartbreak when Piper disappears. We were managing fine without a million dollars before today."
I can only nod. Her logic is unassailable, and... Hugh finally seems to understand. His shoulders drop as he reaches out to touch mine. "We appreciate the offer, Mr. Kensington, but would you mind taking a picture with us instead?"
So I pose with them in a smiling selfie and am on my way.
I'm still working on a plan B, because I need to cheer Celeste up. Iris says Celeste barely speaks at work anymore, skips the office celebrations, hides behind her closed door. The thought of her sadness gnaws at me, but I can't be the one to comfort her. Not yet.
Not when being near her makes me forget every reason I shouldn't love her.
I can't shake her. She's like a splinter that's worked its way too deep to extract.
Some mornings, I round the corner toward the breakfast nook and freeze—there she is with Rosa, laughing over coffee.
I retreat before she notices me, but not before her scent hits me.
That Hermés perfume from the welcome basket I had delivered—candied oranges and patchouli—mixed with the vanilla in her shampoo.
Last week, I called a boutique candlemaker in Venice Beach.
"I need something specific," I said, describing the exact notes.
Now my office smells like her. Johnson from Legal raised an eyebrow yesterday. "Candles, Kensington?" I just shrugged.
Ansel's words echo in my head: "You're in love with her.
" Ridiculous. I simply rearrange my entire schedule to avoid spending more than twenty minutes in her presence.
I merely commissioned artisanal reproductions of her scent so I could breathe it in private.
I unsuccessfully offered $1 million for a shelter pit bull that she fell in love with. Nothing about that suggests love.
Or does it?