by Julia London
“Oh, sure, making your dog a star is exploitative. You should thank me.”
He imagined Hazel dressed in something like what Carly was wearing and suppressed a shudder. “I’m not going to thank you for something that makes no sense and before I see that she is okay. Why didn’t you just bring her with you?”
“Are you crazy? What if you were a dognapper or some other kind of perv? You can’t be too careful these days.”
He looked aghast at her.
“Hey, I just lost one dog. I wasn’t about to lose another one. Which is the real joke here, because Baxter’s not even my dog. I mean he is my dog, but technically he’s . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “Never mind. It’s a long and complicated story that no one has time for, especially me. Do you have a leash I could borrow?”
“Nope. Not taking him. Maybe you’re the perv.”
She snorted. “As if.”
“Look, even trade. I’ll give you Baxter when you deliver Hazel.”
Carly frowned. She clearly did not approve of this idea, because every emotion seemed to end up on that pretty face of hers. But she studied him a long moment and finally gave him a curt nod. “Fine. I’ll be back by seven. You better be here when I get back. No running off with my dog.”
“Again, not a dognapper or a perv.”
“Yeah, well, that’s exactly what a dognapper or a perv would say.” She walked past him to the couch to where Baxter was now snoozing. She rubbed his head, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulder in one long cascade when she leaned over the dog. “You poor thing,” she cooed.
“He’s fine,” Max said, trying not to be offended. “He’s better than fine. He’s great.”
“Sure, if you think losing all sense of discipline is great,” she said as she headed to the door. “Okay, don’t move, Tobias. I’ll be back.”
“It’s Max,” he said adamantly and followed her to the door and watched her jog very slowly and awkwardly down the brick steps to her car on very high heels. When she’d backed her car down the drive, Max closed the door. He turned around to see Baxter sitting behind him, looking bewildered. “Don’t worry, she’s coming back,” he said. “I think.” He crouched down in front of the dog. “Looks like you’re going home, buddy. And Hazel is coming home, too.”
Baxter wagged his tail.
Max was relieved to have found his dog. Carly was right—Hazel had an awesome personality and he’d missed having her around. At least he could relax now that he knew she was safe. But he still had the issue of the next few days.
He was looking at Baxter when a thought occurred to him.
It was a silly thought. It made no sense. It was in the realm of fantasy, really. But . . . what if Hazel came home, and they were reunited, but then she spent three days with Baxter?
Baxter nudged his arm with his nose, reminding Max to pet him. Max absently scratched his head. “It’s a certifiably insane idea. Well, not insane certifiably, as that would necessitate some sort of dysfunction in the neural pathways and a release of chemicals into my brain, not to mention a psychiatrist to properly diagnose it. But more in the category of crazy pants.”
The idea wasn’t more crazy pants than asking Alanna. He didn’t even know this woman, and his impression was that she was nutty and maybe bossy and pretty intense and she dressed so weird one could reasonably guess she belonged to a cult. He did not get the vibe she was the type to jump on the opportunity to do him a favor, either.
Yep, this idea could be filed under Worst Idea Ever.
But in science, you learned to test various hypotheses. What if he did ask Carly with the sleeves? What if she said yes? What if, assuming Hazel was in good health and spirits and no worse for the wear, that he could make this crazy idea work?
“Nope,” he said aloud, scoffing at himself. “Don’t be an idiot, Sheffington.”
Baxter rolled onto his back.
Max obliged his silent request for a belly rub. “But . . . she cared enough about you to go the extra mile to find you, right? And seems like severely and overly concerned about what you’re eating, which means she wouldn’t feed Hazel cat food. And really, we’re talking only three days. Not a month or a lifetime.” He rose to his feet. “What’s the worst that could happen? The worst that could happen is that she would say no.”
Baxter, sensing the personal attention had come to an end, waddled back to the couch. “You didn’t answer the question,” Max said.
Seriously, if she said no, he’d go with plan B, which was Alanna. He was leaving tomorrow—there was no time to get him into a kennel, assuming there was any room at the inn. Neither idea was great, but plan B was the worse option.
He was about fifty percent certain.
Four
It was true that Carly was in a foul mood when she’d arrived at Tobias Sheffington’s doorstep. But who wouldn’t be after going through what she’d gone through to find her dog, all the while experiencing how incredibly uncomfortable a true Victor Allen design could be.
Not to mention humiliating.
She’d discovered that when she’d stopped off at a Wag-a-Bag for some mints and couldn’t grasp her wallet from her purse while several construction workers stood impatiently behind her until one of them tossed a couple of dollars onto the counter. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d been so stressed today that she hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to tweet, Instagram, or post on Facebook, which was essential when one was in the business of publicity. She was desperate for content, but she would not post a picture of herself in this . . . this thing.
She was going to have to rethink her strategy of wearing Victor’s designs.
Nevertheless, she could have been nicer to Mr. Tobias Sheffington. With a name like that, she’d been expecting a senior citizen in a bow tie, and she’d been taken aback to find such a young man at the door. She certainly hadn’t expected him to be hot, either. He was tall and muscular, like a baseball player. And he had these lovely gray eyes framed with very dark lashes.
And then again, that physique might have all been an optical illusion, because the man was swimming in so much denim. A denim collared shirt over a white T-shirt over denim jeans. He was dressed like he was going to have to excuse himself so he could step out back and quickly chop some wood before they discussed the dog issue. Carly could picture Victor holding out the edges of that denim shirt and shaking his head as he worked out what he could possibly do with the look.
But the other thing that set her off was that when she understood Tobias Sheffington was not a doddering retiree but a living, breathing handsome man presumably with all his faculties, she couldn’t believe he hadn’t had Baxter’s chip scanned. It was like chapter one in her dog manual. Responsible Pet Ownership.
Okay, well, maybe she could apologize to him when she returned Bubbles to him. And then again, maybe not. Megan said she shouldn’t be apologizing all the time. Women say “I’m sorry” far too often. Men never say it.
She pulled into the parking lot at the Umlauf Sculpture Garden and went in search of Phil and his bridesmaids. She had agreed to let him take Bubbles because she’d had to find Baxter.
She found them soon enough, and discovered she wasn’t nearly as confused about the overuse of denim on Max Sheffington as she was about discovering Phil had dressed Bubbles in a glittery white tutu. “Why?” Carly asked, gesturing to the offending garment.
“One could ask the same of you,” he said, giving her the once-over.
“Okay, fair question, but I have a client who asks me to wear these things, remember? What’s your excuse?”
“Also a client.” With a sharp jerk of his head, Phil indicated a bride and twelve bridesmaids gathered around a sculpture of a man and woman kissing. The bridesmaids wore identical white crop pants and black T-shirts that said Bride Tribe in cursive. The bride wore a gray T-shirt that said Bride
over slim white jeans. They were all blond, save one.
“Isn’t this the cutest puppy?” one of the bridesmaids gushed.
“Yes,” Carly agreed, tilting her head to one side. Bubbles—or, as she was known in the land of denim, Hazel—was an adorable dog, and she had to admit, especially in a tutu. Why not? She pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures to post on her social media later. That would be two problems solved today: finding Baxter and finding something to post. Megan Monroe would say that made this day better than the last day but not as good as tomorrow could be.
“They wanted him to look like he was part of the bridal party,” Phil explained.
“Her,” Carly corrected.
Phil snorted as he set up the camera. “If it’s a her, why’d you name her Baxter? Okay, ladies, if you would, please lean in,” he said. “Someone hold the dog.”
Hazel happily sat in the middle of them, her long pink tongue hanging out the side of her mouth for the camera.
Denim Man with the arresting gray eyes and photogenic dog named Hazel was a curious man. She wondered what else was curious about him. Probably loads. Probably everything he did was curious. He was probably a mess in general, because, come on, feeding a dog in the living room?
“Lean in a little more and look here,” Phil instructed, holding his hand up above his head.
To be fair, Carly had had it in for Tobias Sheffington III the moment Kai had handed her the list of Brant’s clients. Standing in a dingy apartment near campus, he’d handed her an even dingier sheet of paper, onto which someone had written their names, their addresses, and their dogs. Carly had scanned the list:
Mr. Alvarez—beagle.
Tammy Pachenko—2 pit bull/lab/kitchen-sink types.
Molly Davis—Labrador, yellow.
Justin Carmine—dachshund, old.
Carly Kennedy—basset, fat.
Tobias Sheffington III—basset, skinny.
Carly had gasped with indignation on Baxter’s behalf. “My dog is not fat,” she’d said to Kai. “He’s big-boned.”
Kai had shrugged and coughed, and suddenly everything smelled like stale pot.
Carly had stewed about Brant’s list all the way to the Sheffington house. Forget that Baxter probably had been tossed into an overgrown backyard and told to fend for himself while she’d provided all the comforts of home to Bubbles—Brant thought Baxter was the fat basset. Well, Hazel wasn’t missing any meals, that was certain.
Mr. Sheffington had a dark scruff of beard, too. Like he’d had to dash out to the denim store to make a bulk purchase and hadn’t had time to shave. And the knit cap he was wearing looked like he’d gotten it out of a bargain bin about fifteen years ago and worn it every day since. He’d stood in his doorway with an expression of confusion, and then surprise, and then, he’d had the nerve to let his gaze travel the length of her. His brows sort of dipped into confusion, and she knew without a single word from him that he did not understand haute couture. Yes, she was wearing an oddity that looked like a futuristic space suit, but still, she should have been afforded the benefit of the doubt.
Except that no one afforded her the benefit of the doubt when she was wearing Victor Allen, she’d noticed.
Well, anyway, Tobias Sheffington III, who was really Max, didn’t have to look at her like she’d just walked out of a big silver pod that had bounced into his yard after falling from the sky. There was something about him that was seriously cute, and when she met seriously cute men, she liked to think—
“Earth to Carly!”
Carly jumped.
Phil was staring at her. “Will you hand me that lens?” he asked, gesturing to a round black thing on top of his camera bag.
Carly handed it to him. “Sorry to be a party pooper, but I have to take the dog and go. I found Baxter!”
“What are you talking about?” Phil muttered as he squinted into the camera sight.
Carly rolled her eyes. “Should I just leave the tutu on a rock or something?”
“Oh, that’s from me!” the bride said. “I didn’t want him to feel left out.”
How did all these adults fail to recognize that was not a male dog?
The bride leaned over and scratched Hazel behind the ears. “You can keep it! Thank you for letting us use him!”
“Come on, Hazel!”
The dog, who had been completely absorbed in the bride, jerked around so hard at the sound of her name that her ears flew out like helicopter blades and she practically levitated to her feet. She sprinted toward Carly at full tilt, her tutu flapping in time with her ears. Just when it looked like she would plow into Carly’s shins, the dog veered to the right and loped over to Phil’s camera bag to have a good sniff of it.
“Ladies, hold that pose!” Phil shouted. He lunged for his camera bag, tossed out a biscuit to Hazel and her leash to Carly. “Hey, can I borrow him again next week? I’m doing a shoot for the Austin Film Festival.”
“It’s a her!” Carly said crossly. And then it occurred to her that Baxter would be just as good at this. “Maybe. Call me later.” She hooked the leash up to Hazel’s collar and the two of them started for the parking lot.
“Byyyeeee!” the Bride Tribe shouted after her in unison.
Carly responded with a wave overhead.
It took Hazel two attempts to actually get in the car, but she made it. Carly thought about removing her tutu but decided that Tobias Sheffington III should see that dogs had fun with her, too, all without ruining furniture or destroying discipline.
A minute or two later, Carly and Hazel were on their way across town to do the dog swap, doing the inchworm through Austin traffic again. Hazel had her head out the window and, Carly noticed, had gotten a couple of honks with her winsome grin.
How many hours of her life did she waste sitting in traffic? Too many. Naomi didn’t lose one-third of her life to sitting in a car because she walked everywhere. Carly picked up the phone and called Naomi.
Naomi answered on the fifth ring. “Hey!” she shouted brightly. She sounded like she was in a hole.
“Please tell me you are doing something fun because I am stuck in traffic for like the fourth time today,” Carly said.
“We’re at a club!” Naomi shouted into the phone. “I met this guy at the Starbucks around the corner. We got stuck behind a massive Frappuccino order and hit it off, and he had friends, and I had friends, and you have to come to this club, Carly! It’s awesome!”
“I wish!” Carly shouted back at her.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me you got a job and you’re moving to New York,” Naomi shouted over the din.
“I wish that, too! I haven’t had any luck with—”
“Are you following up?” Naomi quickly interjected. “You have to follow up.”
“I’m following up,” Carly assured her. She was following up so much she was making a nuisance of herself.
“You need to come and pound the pavement. You can stay with me and Tandy and Juliette until you find a place.”
“I’ll be there in a few weeks for the New Designer Showcase. We can meet up and I—”
“What? I can’t hear you! Carly, wait.” There was a muffled sound, and Naomi said suddenly, “You didn’t. You did?” That was followed by a squeal. “I love champagne cocktails!”
“I love champagne cocktails too,” Carly said wistfully.
“Carly, I have to go. Dan got me a champagne cocktail, and it’s delicious and he’s cute—yes,” she said, laughing, “I just said you are cute. Carly, I have to go. Call me!”
“Bye,” Carly said, but Naomi had already clicked off.
Damn it. Carly never went to clubs anymore. With Karma and Lydia married and working odd hours, she didn’t have a crew. When she’d worked at DBS, they would hit happy hour at places around town, but now that she was
on her own, her relationships with her former coworkers had sort of faded away, and the opportunities were few and far between.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at Hazel’s tutu-clad butt and wagging tail. Was this the moment, then? Was this the day, the hour, the second she finally admitted her life was not going to plan?
Every day, Megan Monroe posted a #motivation tweet to remind her followers that all they had to do with lemons was make lemonade. But sometimes that wasn’t as easy as it sounded in a tweet or on a podcast. Carly felt as if she had spent the last year digging her life’s river channel with her bare hands, but her life was not running along in that channel like it was supposed to. It was breaking its banks and flowing in so many different directions that stuff was floating away from her.
She would soon be thirty years old.
In the life plan she’d made for herself when she was sixteen—she still had the spiral notebook with the sparkly stickers and colorful page decorations—she was supposed to be successful and maybe even married by now. She was supposed to live in a house with a deep backyard, with a dog or two and maybe even kids. She was supposed to be a member of giving circles and organizations that mattered, to champion causes like climate protection and humane immigration policies, and somewhere along the line have turned into a gourmet cook and be a highly sought-after doubles partner at the tennis club. She was supposed to be at the top of her professional game, maybe even being considered for partner at DBS.
But the reality was that in spite of her hard work, last year she’d been organized out of a job, her boyfriend of six months had decided he wanted to date other people—maybe all the people, she wasn’t clear on that, but specifically not her—her parents had split up and divorced and dragged their grown children down that path with them, and her sister was melting down a little more each day with her young kids and her chronically absent husband.
The truth was that Carly was beginning to flounder. She’d be eating out of dumpsters if it weren’t for Victor and her other client, Gordon; but, make no mistake, neither of them were paying her enough to cover her expenses and sometimes working for Victor felt like a full-time babysitting job. Her applications for positions in New York firms seemed to be disappearing into black holes.
