11. Lucy #3
It was such a little thing, but I softened a little at my baby brother. The kind of thing people who loved each other stopped noticing because it became ordinary.
"I also brought extra bacon," he added. He pointed toward the rescue pens. "You'll need bargaining chips."
Naomi beamed. "This is the best brunch ever."
Conversation drifted as naturally as the steam rising from our coffee.
Bea complained about the seating chart for the charity gala. "I swear they intentionally seat every board member beside me."
"They do," I said.
"They're all going to ask if we've finalized sponsorship numbers."
"They are."
"And then they'll tell me how they would've done it."
"They will."
Naomi frowned. "You both realize normal twenty-somethings spend their nights watching terrible reality television."
"I would love terrible reality television," Bea sighed.
The conversation wandered from there. Local gossip. A bakery opening two neighborhoods over. A disastrous first date Naomi had witnessed at the bookstore café. Arlo insisting cinnamon belonged in chili. The rest of us informing him he needed professional help.
It was easy.
Effortless.
Nobody needed anything from me. Nobody cared that I worked for the Frosthawks. Nobody asked about New York. Nobody asked about Buzz.
I wasn't Ezra Thomas's daughter.
I wasn't Director of Player Operations.
I was just Lucy.
A sharp little voice cut through the patio. "Mama!"
Every head turned. Near the rescue pens, a little girl stood with the pen gate swinging open beside her.
"Oh no," one of the volunteers said.
A golden blur shot through the opening. "Dottie!"
Another volunteer groaned with the weary affection of someone who had apparently done this before. "Not again."
The young dog burst across the patio with complete disregard for traction, paws scrambling across the brick before she caught herself and kept going, ears flapping wildly with every awkward stride.
One of the volunteers spun toward the open exercise pen. "Dottie!"
A little girl clapped her hands. "She's playing!"
"No, honey," her mother snickered, already stepping out of the way. "She's escaping."
Conversations paused around the patio. Forks hovered halfway to mouths. People smiled as the blur zigzagged between tables, weaving through chair legs and boots with the reckless confidence only young dogs seemed capable of possessing.
"Dottie!"
"This way!"
"Come here, pretty girl!"
She ignored every voice.
A volunteer crouched a few yards away, patting her leg.
Another offered a treat.
Dottie didn't so much as glance in their direction.
She slipped beneath one table, popped out the other side, skidded around a planter overflowing with orange mums, nearly collided with a man carrying pancakes, recovered without missing a beat, and kept running.
Straight toward us. Toward me.
I frowned. Surely... No.
She'd veer off. Find someone else.
I wasn't doing anything to encourage her. I didn't call her. Didn't whistle. Didn't kneel.
I was still sitting exactly where I'd been thirty seconds earlier, one hand wrapped around my coffee mug.
The dog closed the last few feet between us.
Then stopped.
Directly in front of my chair.
She looked up at me. Her ears were entirely too big for her head. Her warm brown eyes met mine with complete certainty.
Then she sat. Like she'd arrived exactly where she'd meant to go.
The patio grew unexpectedly quiet.
I became vaguely aware of half a dozen people watching.
Someone behind me murmured, "Well..."
I blinked down at her. "...Hi." The single word felt almost ridiculous.
The dog's tail answered first, setting her entire back end wagging with such enthusiastic determination that her whole body wiggled with it.
She scooted forward another few inches, pressed her chest against my knees, and leaned every lanky pound of herself into my legs with absolute trust. Like she'd known me much longer than the thirty seconds we'd been occupying the same space.
My free hand moved before I consciously decided to lift it. Fingers slid between impossibly soft ears.
She closed her eyes. An enormous sigh escaped her. Safe. Home.
Something inside my chest gave way so suddenly it almost stole my breath.
The volunteer finally reached us, slightly out of breath, one hand braced against her knee. "I'm so sorry," she said automatically.
Then she looked down.
Dottie hadn't moved. Not an inch.
The volunteer's expression softened. She smiled to herself before looking back at me. "I had a feeling."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Some dogs spend the whole day meeting people." She nodded toward Dottie. “She hasn't wanted anything to do with anybody."
I looked back down. The golden mutt had somehow managed to wedge herself even closer against my legs.
The volunteer chuckled. "Sometimes..." She let the words linger for a heartbeat. "They choose."
I stared at the dog. She opened one eye just long enough to look back at me before immediately leaning harder into my hand. As if the conversation had already been settled.
Across the table, Arlo looked from the dog...to me...then smiled. "Looks like you've been adopted."