by Julia London
She looked down at one of her sleeves. Then at him. “What?”
“The, ah . . . the costume you were wearing with the sleeves,” he said, gesturing to his own arm. “What sort of costume was it, anyway?”
Carly’s mouth dropped open. And then closed. Well, then. If he wanted to dissipate the strange little spell between them, he’d done it, and but good. She cocked her weight on one hip in a manner that had irked female written all over it and Max didn’t know how, or what, but he realized he’d said something horribly, terribly wrong. “I’m sorry,” she said with false airiness. “Did you say costume?”
“I mean . . . wasn’t it?”
She folded her arms. “For your information, I was wearing an original Victor Allen.”
He had no idea who or what that was, but he could plainly see he’d tripped a wire and blown up a mine. “Oh. I didn’t know—”
“You’d pay thousands for that ensemble in New York or Los Angeles,” she said, clearly gathering some steam.
An inadvertent chuckle of disbelief escaped him. “Why?”
She gasped. Her eyes rounded.
“Okay,” Max said, and held up his hand. “I sort of live under a rock—”
“Yes, you do!” She made a sound like a shout and gasp of air at once. “I don’t even know where to begin! I mean, you obviously have never heard of Victor Allen—”
“True—”
“But he just happens to be one of the nation’s most exciting young fashion designers and he’s from Austin.”
“Cool,” Max said.
“He won Project Runway.”
He was beginning to feel like a visitor to a strange land. “I didn’t know that.” Should he know it? Was that a thing—to know fashion designers and what they’d won? He shoved his hands into his pockets and fisted them in a vain attempt to keep from exploding into full nerd and asking exactly that question.
“You don’t know what that is, do you?”
He winced. “I’m sorry, I really don’t.”
“You really don’t know anything about fashion?”
For her information, he owned a leather jacket that he thought was pretty awesome. “I guess I just know what looks good,” he offered. But the minute the words were out of his mouth, he realized how they must sound to her, and if he had any doubt, Carly’s expression confirmed it.
“That . . . costume, as you call it, is an avant-garde piece. It’s art. It’s not supposed to look good, it’s supposed to promote brand awareness and make you think. The theme of his collection is futuristic space diva.”
Max was flummoxed. He had never thought about clothes past what went with what. He couldn’t name a brand of any clothes he wore. Nope, he just put on his pants and a shirt and went to work.
“I mean, I’m not surprised,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “you’re a guy, so . . .” She glanced away.
Curiously, her tone suggested that she was repulsed by guys and at the same time, thought she was being magnanimous by naming him one. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He was a guy, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He was a scientist—surely that counted for something. Surely he shouldn’t be expected to know fashion labels, too. “So?” he pressed her.
“And . . . no offense, but most guys don’t get fashion. At least not the ones I seem to run into.” Her gaze flicked over him, as he apparently was one she’d run into. “You should really check out Victor Allen online. He’s insanely talented.”
That was not the technically correct meaning of insane, but Max thought the better of pointing that out.
“I’m his publicist, so I wear his designs.”
Aha. Mystery solved. He wondered if that meant she had to wear that . . . art . . . all the time. If so, it was a bit of a buzzkill.
“What? What is that look?” she asked, making a whirling motion with her finger in the direction of his face.
“What look?”
“One of your brows just shot up.”
“Nope. Didn’t shoot up.”
“Yes, it did. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking just like my brother-in-law, who said that jumpsuit looked stupid, and, by the way, this from a man who is in sweats and T-shirts most of the time when I see him.”
Max laughed with surprise. “It was a jumpsuit? Wow . . . I did not have jumpsuit on my list of possibilities.”
“Okay, all right,” she said, nodding as if she’d just figured him out. “You just proved my point—you’re such a guy. I don’t expect most people to understand haute couture any more than you probably expect me to understand accounting or whatever it is you do, and yet, I can stand here and see that your eyes are really gray, and not green like I first thought, and I can also see that high fashion is art.”
“What?”
“Whew boy,” she said, as if she’d just jogged her way into this conversation. She put her hands on her hips. “That was rough.” She blew out her cheeks, looked around him and into the hall. “Okay, well, now that we covered that, I guess I should get my dog and get—”
The sound of a crash startled them. Carly jumped. “What was that?”
Max groaned. “I think it might have been a pizza.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Hazel, that better not have been you!”
On the other side of the kitchen bar he found Baxter with his head hung low, prepared to be guilty even if he hadn’t done anything wrong, and an unrepentant Hazel munching away at what was left of the pizza Max had put aside when he’d begun to suspect Carly wasn’t coming back and had begun to worry in earnest. “Seriously?” he demanded of the two of them. “How could either one of you possibly get up that high? It defies all known properties of gravity,” he said, gesturing to the counter. He dipped down, pushed Hazel away from the box, and picked up what was left of the pizza. He placed the mangled pieces of pizza on the bar and looked at his fingers, covered in pizza sauce. The dogs, divested of the rest of the pizza and probably sensing there would be no dire consequences, were wrestling each other again.
“Oh no.”
Max jerked toward the sound of Carly’s voice. She’d followed him into the kitchen and saw the remains of pizza on the floor. “That’s a mess.”
“Understatement,” he muttered, and grabbed a roll of paper towels.
“I have never seen Baxter like this. I really think he and Bubbles are friends.”
“Hazel,” he reminded her. He turned on the faucet to wash his hands. “I don’t see Hazel like this very often, either, to be honest. And I’ve never seen her in a tutu. I appreciate the gesture, but I’m going to take it off.”
“It’s adorable, but if you want to be a killjoy . . .” She smiled pertly.
“I want to be a killjoy,” he said. Bandannas were one thing. Tutus were quite another. He turned off the tap and dried his hands. Then he stepped in between the wrestling dogs, lifted Hazel up by the back end, and yanked the tutu free of her body. He opened one of the French doors and flipped on an outside light. “Take it outside, you two,” he commanded.
The two dogs frolicked their way out the door.
Carly moved to stand beside him at the door and peered out into the yard. Max had done a little landscaping last year. He’d made a small firepit and had installed a Buddha in the flower bed. “Nice,” Carly said. “I worried that Baxter was tied up in someone’s bare backyard.” She turned to face him. “Did you worry about Hazel?”
“Of course. But I think I worried more that Hazel would make herself too comfortable.”
Carly laughed at that, and Max was surprised by the sound of it—her laugh was lovely. She’d come in so hot that any laugh was unexpected, and especially one like that.
And then, just as suddenly, her smile faded a little, and she was looking at him again in that strange way that made Max feel self-conscious. He didn’t like it. He b
rushed his hand across his cheek just in case.
Carly abruptly pirouetted away from the door and into his living area. “I think we’ve learned a valuable lesson here, don’t you?”
A lesson? What lesson? “We have?”
“Sure! We’ve learned that crazy things happen when dogs are involved. Like, your name is Max? Because Brant had you down as Tobias Sheffington III, and he is definitely the type to pounce on a shortcut like Max.”
“One hundred percent,” Max agreed.
She smiled, and that strange vibe rushed through him again.
“I should get Baxter and go. Busy, busy day tomorrow. I have to swing by someone’s house and log them on to a computer. Need to rest up for that.”
“You have to do what?”
She shook her head as she looked at her watch. “I’m kidding. Well, I’m not kidding, but it’s a long, boring story, so I’ll save that for someone I don’t like.” She glanced up and smiled. “Lucky you.”
Did that mean she liked him? Was this the time to ask for his favor?
“Well, Mr. Sheffington, this has been a week! May you and Hazel find a new dog walker who is not selling pot on the side. I may skip the dog walker for the time being. I’ve got some super serious trust issues now.” She made a flourish with her hand and bowed, then walked to the French doors and peered out. “Oh.”
The dogs had a dog rope between them and were engaged in a fierce tug-of-war. “They really like each other, don’t they?” Max said.
“I’m not gonna lie—Baxter has been so depressed since I got him.”
“Yeah? He was really down in the beginning here, too, but he perked up for me after a day.”
“Why?” She peeked up at him. “Are you a dog whisperer or something?”
“I let him on the couch.” He smiled.
Carly snorted. “He’s probably ruined for life, so thanks for that. Hazel looks pretty happy, too. She’s a real people person.”
He resisted the urge to point out that she was mixing species. “How long have you had Baxter?”
“A few weeks. How long have you had Hazel?”
“Not quite a year,” he said. “You seem to like Hazel, at least.”
“I love Hazel. I love all dogs. Dogs are the best.”
“Even the ones that eat your pillows?”
She gave him a wry smile. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”
Max was relieved to hear it, because he was about to ask her the most outrageous favor, and it helped if she wasn’t holding a grudge against his dog. “I’m more than happy to reimburse you.” He shoved a hand through his hair and knocked some of it loose over his brow. He resisted the urge to brush it back like a nervous Nellie, but what he was doing suddenly seemed ridiculously absurd. So absurd that he almost talked himself out of it. But then Jamie’s face flashed across his mind’s eye.
“Carly, I need to, ah . . .” Get hold of yourself, man. “I would like to ask you a favor.” There, he’d said it.
And just as he suspected, Carly instantly frowned with suspicion. “That doesn’t sound good. What sort of favor?”
“So here’s the deal. I am taking my brother to the Midwest Regional Dog Show in Chicago tomorrow. It’s a special gift for him, and we’ve had tickets for a long time.”
Carly said nothing, but her brows sank deeper into a frown.
“Brant was supposed to dog-sit for me.”
“Eew.” She wrinkled her nose.
“That plan is definitely dead,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “But as everything happened last minute, and I didn’t have the right dog, and . . . well, I can’t find anyone who can take Hazel at a moment’s notice.”
Carly stared at him. Her brows went from a deep vee to arching high over her eyes as understanding dawned in her lovely eyes. “No way.”
“Hear me out,” he begged her.
“I rescue your dog for you and now you want me to keep her for you? I don’t even know you. I’m still getting over the fact that your name isn’t Tobias.”
“Well, it is Tobias, but it’s also Max, and if you think about it, you actually know all of my names—”
“You aren’t going to ask me to take your dog this weekend, are you? You aren’t really going to do that.”
“I get it,” he said, holding up both hands. “I know this is the last thing you expected when you saved the day, and I swear to God, I would never ask if I didn’t find myself in such a bind.”
“This is crazy!” she said with a disbelieving laugh. She stacked her hands on top of her head and twirled in a circle. “You want me to dog-sit?”
“I’ll pay you,” he said. “And you can stay here if you want. Baxter, too, of course.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen—I would never stay in a house with a kitchen in that state,” she said, pointing to the mess in his kitchen. “I’d need search and rescue just to find the fridge.”
“Fair point,” he said. “It’s been a long week . . .” He decided not to delve into the reasons behind his haphazard housekeeping. “I’ll clean it—”
“Max! For all you know, I could be an ax murderer.”
“Oh,” he said with an inadvertent chuckle, “I think I know you’re not an ax murderer.”
“How?” she demanded. “How could you possibly know?”
“I have a pretty good feeling that someone who is into high fashion and calls it art is not going to get blood on her clothes.”
She considered that for a minute. “True. Okay, fine, I’m not an ax murderer, but you know what I’m saying, and, besides, isn’t it a rule of thumb that you’re supposed to wait until you’ve at least had dinner with someone before you ask for a favor?”
“There’s a rule?” he asked, surprised by this.
“If there’s not, there ought to be. I can’t believe you are asking me this.”
“Carly, I know—it’s beyond,” he said apologetically. “It’s an audacious and gross abuse of our very meager acquaintance. And I wouldn’t ask, but this is so important to my brother, and my dad is going fishing—”
“Come on—surely you’ve got someone else. What about your mother? Another sibling? A friend? You’ve got to have one or two of those lying around. You’re a good-looking guy. You must have some girlfriends who would do it.”
He would save his pleasure at being called good-looking for later. “My mother is dead, my aunt is allergic to pet dander, and my dad desperately needs a break because my brother, the one I am taking to the dog show, is profoundly autistic and has to have someone with him all the time.” He strode across the room and picked up a picture from the mantel of his dad and Jamie. His dad was grinning, leaning against an old car he’d refurbished. Jamie was standing close by, unsmiling, his gaze on something to the side.
He held the picture out to Carly. She looked at it.
“My dad needs a break. My brother needs a break. We’ve been planning this a really long time and then Brant ruined everything for these two guys and they don’t even know him. I’ve tried to find a dog-sitter at such short notice, or even a kennel, but I can’t find anyone.”
She looked at the picture again.
Max stepped closer. “Jamie has already packed his bags. He has his dog books on the bed. He’s obsessed with dogs. Dogs are the only thing he really responds to, and that’s why I got Hazel in the first place, so he could have a dog around. How am I going to tell him he can’t go to a dog show because of a dog? How ironic is that?”
“Oh my God,” Carly whispered to the ceiling. “That’s ridiculously ironic.”
“My neighbor used Brant a couple of times and said everything worked out fine. I assumed it would for me, too.” Max shifted even closer. “Listen, Carly, were it not for my brother, I would never dream of asking you. Look at them,” he said, swinging around to the French doors aga
in. “Baxter obviously loves Hazel and she loves him. Look at them.”
Carly turned her head and looked out. The dogs were romping like puppies.
“Come on,” Max said softly. “Have you ever seen Baxter so happy?”
“Unfair,” she said weakly. “You know I haven’t. But two dogs is a lot.”
“They will be a piece of cake. They will keep each other company and because they have each other, they will stay out of trouble. It will feel like they’re not even there.”
She looked dubious.
“It’s obvious you care about dogs, and you’ve been hanging out with Hazel for a couple of days now. You even took her to someone’s wedding.”
“I didn’t take her to a wedding—”
“Jamie loves dogs, and this means so much to him. He has a job at the Austin Canine Coalition now, did I mention that? It’s the first job he’s managed to hold on to. He doesn’t talk much, but in his job, he doesn’t have to because he gets dogs and they get him.”
She stared out the window at the dogs, her lips pressed together as she considered it.
“You would not believe how much progress my brother has made since he started working there. He’s so eager to get there that he started taking the bus by himself once a week. He didn’t have any social life before this job, but he’s actually gone for ice cream with some of the other workers. His entire world is home and the ACC, and he has been looking forward to this since I booked it. Every time I see him, he says dog show. Look.” He walked to the wall near the fireplace and lifted a canvas from a hook. He brought it back to show her. It was a painting of a floppy-eared dog. “Jamie painted this. He even paints dogs.”
“That’s a really good painting,” she said softly. She closed her eyes and drew a long breath. “Okay.” She opened them again. “How can I disappoint your brother? Or Baxter? Or Hazel? Oh my God,” she said with a dramatic, backward drop of her head.
