Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  My phone buzzed with a text from my mom. I tapped the message icon to find a picture of her kitchen counter littered with everything needed to whip up a tray of Fruity Pebbles marshmallow treats—the only food apart from peanut butter and jelly she could cook. Since my peewee football years, my mom had prepared those delicious confections whenever I’d lost a game or played like crap. And still to this day, I loved everything about our ritual and those cereal treats—the bright colors, the sugar, the way they made me feel like a kid again. As irritated and pissed off as I felt, my lips twitched with the ghost of an old familiar smile. At least I had one good thing to look forward to later.

  I typed a quick reply to my mom, telling her I’d drop by her house tomorrow, then got in my car with no particular destination in mind, utterly surprised when half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot at Rescue Granted. Sure. Why not. It was, after all, a haven for the sad and pathetic. I’d fit right in.

  I killed the engine and went through the staff entrance around the back. In the office, Penny was filing paperwork in the cabinet behind her desk. I knocked on the doorframe.

  Turning around, Penny smiled, did her usual eye dance over my body, and said, “You’re not on the schedule until tomorrow.”

  “I know. I was in the area, so I’d figured I’d swing by,” I said, glancing around the room to prevent her from reading the lie on my face.

  “Well, Hazel’s not here at the moment. She’s at one of our clinic partners picking up Snowcone, a Maltipoo,” she said, shoving a drawer closed with her hip. “But since you’re here, Waffles could use an extra wander around in the yard.”

  I grabbed a green leash with geckos on it off the hook and headed into the rehabilitation area. Show tunes were playing on the boom box today, and I looked into Olive’s kennel hoping to find her freckled muzzle sticking out from beneath the bed, but she was nowhere to be seen. I’d coax her all the way out eventually—I just had to be patient.

  I rolled up my shirtsleeves and moved over to Waffles’ kennel. He was conked out in the middle of the floor, sleeping on his side with his missing leg facing the ceiling, and surrounded by plastic bones. Damn, the little Westie could snore louder than dogs three times his size. I could only imagine the sort of dreams he was having.

  I rattled the wire on his crate. “Come on, Waffles. Let’s go chase some chickens.”

  At the sound of my voice, he perked up, tongue lolling to one side and tail wagging, and he trotted over to the door as if being a three-legged creature had never slowed him down. The sound of the door unlatching sent Waffles into a frenzy of barking and jumping.

  “Hold your horses. I need to get this on you first,” I said, pulling him out and securing the leash to his collar. As I relocked his kennel, Waffles nearly ripped my arm out of its socket with his tugging and scrambling toward the yard entrance. With this level of excitement, one would think he was headed to Disney’s Animal Kingdom.

  I followed Waffles outside and over to the grassy area, which was flanked by trees on all sides. It’d warmed up slightly from this morning, and the sky was so bright and blue it was hard to believe it was November. The scent of dead leaves in the air was the only clue that fall was here to stay.

  Giving a big lead on his leash, I waited for him to do his thing. The dog spent more time circling and sniffing for a space to squat than I spent picking up a woman, which, now that I considered it, was probably more of an indication of my personal habits than his. But seriously, would Waffles just find a damn spot to pee already?

  “What’s the deal, bud? This yard not good enough for you?” I asked.

  He looked at me, his big brown eyes suddenly interested, and ran over to where I was standing. He sniffed around my shoe, then pawed at my leg like he wanted his ears scratched. I figured one of us should feel better, but as I bent down to pet him, he leaned to his left and whizzed all over my tailor-cut pants.

  “Hey! A little warning next time, Waffles!” I groaned, hauling him back inside so I could clean up. This was exactly why I didn’t do dogs.

  Locking him in his kennel, I used the sink in the storage area to wipe off the urine as best I could, but damn, the fabric smelled like rotten asparagus. What in the hell had Waffles been drinking? Though after the day I’d had, I didn’t know why I was surprised a dog had pissed on me. It was Crap on Chris day, after all, and this episode was just the cherry on top. But spotting what looked like a container of gingerbread cookies on one of the shelves immediately made me feel better. Maybe my luck is changing, I thought.

  Stealing the plastic container, I headed back into the rehab area and sat with my back against Olive’s kennel. I popped the lid off, and the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin hit my nose, making my mouth water. After games, I typically consumed my weight in steak, but I hadn’t felt hungry until now. The cookies were shaped like bones and fire hydrants, and I wondered if Hazel baked in her spare time to alleviate stress. I could think of better, more physical ways to relieve anxiety, but who was I to judge?

  I took a bite, then another. The texture was a little hard and crumbly, but the flavor, more savory than sweet, reminded me of the treats Gwen used to whip up every Thanksgiving when we were kids.

  “You know what you need, Olive? A mantra,” I said, breaking off some cookie and tossing it into her kennel. I heard shuffling, and when I peered over my shoulder, I noticed the piece was gone. “Mine’s FIGJAM. Stands for ‘fuck, I’m good, just ask me.’ ”

  Olive snorted, clearly unimpressed, and I had to admit that it sounded ridiculous to my own ears, too.

  “I think that might be a bit advanced for you though. Too many letters.” I tossed in another chunk, bigger this time. Olive crawled out to snatch it, but before she could hide again, I reached into the container for a fresh cookie and dropped the whole thing into Olive’s kennel, right on the other side of where I was seated, forcing her to come over to me if she wanted to eat it. “How about BWE, short for ‘best wingwoman ever’?”

  Olive shimmied from nose to tail, gaze glued on the cookie, then huffed and stared up at me with big sad eyes.

  “Wingwoman’s gotta fly, kid,” I said.

  She huffed again, then belly-crawled forward, her tail thumping against the kennel floor, before she began nibbling.

  “See, best wingwoman ever,” I continued, mentally doing a happy dance. Not only had I persuaded her out from under the bed, but she was close enough for me to touch. And now that I was staring into those huge brown eyes that bulged out of her little round head, I was rethinking my stance on dogs being little more than destructive drool machines. Because Olive? She was certainly cuter than the chubby baby Logan and my sister were bound to produce eventually. “With your teddy bear face and my charm, we could walk into any bar and I could pick up any woman.”

  “Any woman?”

  I immediately dropped the nearly finished cookie into my lap at the sound of Hazel’s voice and met her gaze. One of her eyebrows was raised in a challenge.

  “Yep, any woman. Even you, stubborn Hazel Grant.” I tore off another bite of cookie and chewed gleefully, relishing in the way her cheeks had turned red. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Hazel was feeling some feelings about dear ol’ me.

  She glanced at Olive lying on the floor near her kennel door but didn’t comment. Still, I could tell Hazel was impressed by the way her mouth quirked up on one side.

  “Why do you smell like urine?” she asked, scrunching up her nose and scrutinizing my appearance.

  “I’m having a rough go of it, okay?” I said, mock affronted. In reality, my day had just gotten a whole lot better with her arrival. She was wearing those jeans I loved, the ones that invited me to imagine how the fabric would feel against my fingers as I peeled the denim over curves that had me picturing all the ways Hazel Grant could be a handful.

  “And those dog biscuits are making it better?”

  I frowned, studying the treat in my hand. “Dog biscuits? These are gingerbread coo
kies . . .”

  Hazel laughed and shook her head, her honey-blond hair glimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Hate to break it to you, champ, but things are about to get worse for you. Those are homemade dog biscuits—a recipe I’m trying to help loosen Olive’s bowels. She’s been constipated lately.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I asked, horrified.

  “Well, about the digestive part, yes,” Hazel said with a wink. Damn, she was beautiful when she joked around. “But you’re still eating dog treats.”

  “Well, whatever, they’re tasty.” I pitched the rest of the biscuit into the air, catching it in my mouth and polishing it off in one gulp.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, voice quiet. Hazel stuffed her hands into her pockets and leaned against Sausage and Beans’ kennel, looking everywhere other than at me, as though she was self-conscious of the compliment.

  “Well, if you’re interested in thanking me properly, I’ve got a few suggestions for some workplace incentives you could implement,” I said, wiggling my brows.

  Hazel sighed. “You can’t seriously believe that will work on me.”

  “No, but I figured everyone else has shot me down today, so why deny you the thrill?” I shrugged.

  She rolled her eyes, muttered something to herself, then said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, get up off the floor and come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked, standing and brushing the crumbs off my pants.

  “Somewhere that will cheer you up—I can’t have you acting all mopey and pathetic around the dogs. But this is not a date, Lalonde. We’re splitting the check and driving in separate cars.”

  Then Hazel turned and walked toward the direction of the office, and I grinned at Olive over my shoulder. FIGJAM and BWE for the win.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hazel

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking when I impulsively decided to cheer Chris up, but the sight of him and Olive sitting on the floor, both munching on dog biscuits, was too much adorableness for me to handle. Damn, the man had a way of surprising me. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be rolling off him tomorrow morning, sweaty and exhausted, giving FIGJAM himself a full report on just how good he was in bed.

  So naturally I did the only thing possible: I gave him directions to Casa Bonita—a giant margarita-laden, cold cheese enchilada–serving, sticky sopaipilla of a three-ring-circus sideshow—and sent him on his way, telling him I’d meet him at the restaurant in an hour. No way was I hanging out with a man who reeked of dog pee, no matter how attractive he was.

  Dubbed “The World’s Most Exciting Restaurant” by Denver locals and visitors alike, the Mexican-themed behemoth housed in a pink castle-like building in a random strip mall amid thrift shops and dollar stores on Colfax had it all—cliff divers, magicians, puppet shows, a cave visitors could get lost in, a massive arcade, and a menu that was certain to cause food poisoning. It was the type of place Chris and his fifty-million-dollar Blizzards contract would normally never be caught dead in.

  “Holy shit, I thought the wonders of Casa Bonita were an urban legend.” Chris glanced around at the lobby’s picturesque whitewashed walls, the tiled roofs and carts packed with produce and dried chilies, the pieces of clay pottery and multicolored ponchos strewn about.

  “Oh, Casa Bonita is real all right.” And cheesy and campy and a sensory delight that appealed to the child in everyone—Chris should love it, once he got past the gawking.

  “No, I really believed it was a myth. Like El Chupacabra. Or Bloody Mary. Or—”

  “FIGJAM and BWE?” I asked sweetly as we entered the line and snaked our way through a labyrinth-like maze surrounded by faux rock formations and palm trees to the hostess podium ahead, the scent of melted cheese, grease, and looming regret leading us.

  “Hey, it convinced you to have dinner with me. And besides, no one’s life is complete without a Lalonde in it,” Chris said, rubbing the nape of his neck in a way that had his biceps testing the strength of his shirtsleeves and his hemline riding up to reveal abs that I was definitely, unequivocally not staring at.

  On first glance, Chris looked like he’d rolled out of the shower and into the first set of clothes he found. But as I studied him, the way his jeans and shirt hugged every muscle, clung to each sharp plane as if tailored specifically for him, I realized the outfit took money—and taste.

  What felt like an eternity later, we stepped up to the hostess, who functioned as a sort of gatekeeper, barring entrance to the wondrous cantina until we ordered a meal. She handed us menus and trays, and Chris’s jaw dropped.

  “Is this place cafeteria style?” he asked, staring at me in shock or awe—maybe both—then told the hostess, “Ma’am, I’m going to need two trays.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said.

  “I grew up in a home with a sister and father who could cook—if there’s anything I’m skilled at, it’s eating,” he said, then proceeded to order the specialty of the house, which consisted of two crispy tacos, three enchiladas, Mexican rice, refried beans, guacamole, and sour cream.

  “The deluxe dinner also comes with chips, queso, salsa, and our world-famous bottomless sopaipillas with honey,” the hostess said.

  “Feels like my birthday,” he said with a smile.

  I’d expected Chris to bail at the first sight of what passed for Mexican food at Casa Bonita—no way a guy like him would settle for anything less than high-quality cuisine—but he appeared genuinely thrilled.

  I chose the safer, non-heartburn-inducing option—beef fajitas—and we continued along the railings, collecting our plates from a slot carved out of the kitchen wall and guiding our lamp-warmed food down the tray track. We reached the main dining room and another podium, this time with a man guarding admittance to the seating area.

  “Party of two, please. First available table is fine,” I said to the host.

  Chris scoffed. “First available is not fine. We will not accept anything less than a table near the waterfall, where all the good shit goes down. I came to witness the fire jugglers and the dude in the gorilla suit I saw on the South Park episode, and I will not leave until I do.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but all the waterfall tables are occupied,” the host said.

  Chris’s expression clouded over, clearly unaccustomed to being told no. “We’ll wait,” he said, as if it wouldn’t be awkward at all for us to stand there holding trays of rapidly cooling food while bottlenecking the line.

  “Oh, but usually people phone ahead for those seats—”

  “Well, point me to the party next on the list for a good table, and I’ll handle it,” he said.

  “That group over there,” the host said, gesturing to a couple with two young sons all decked out in varying degrees of Blizzard merchandise.

  “Wonder if they’re in the Chris Lalonde sucks fan club,” Chris muttered, then strode up to the family. “Hey, guys.”

  “Oh my god, you’re Chris Lalonde!” the father exclaimed, his eyes bugging out as he bolted away from the wall he’d been propped up against. “Look, boys, it’s your favorite wide receiver. What can we do for you?”

  “Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” Chris said, shaking the parents’ hands and fist-bumping with the kids. “See that beautiful girl over there? Her name’s Hazel, and she’s been dodging my attempts at romance since we met. I finally persuaded her to go out with me, but I failed to plan ahead and they want to put us in the back of the restaurant by the puppet show.”

  “The puppets are my favorite!” the littlest boy piped up.

  “Yeah? Think you might be willing to trade tables? I’d be happy to toss in some Blizzards tickets for your trouble,” Chris said, and just like that, he’d charmed his way into getting what he wanted. Again. How did he do it so effortlessly?

  “Does anyone ever say no to you?” I asked as we followed the host to our table.

  “You mean apart from you?”

  “Obviously.”

  Chri
s leaned close to me, his breath warm against my cheek as he whispered, “That’s something you should understand about me, Hazel. I won’t be denied. And when I’m given an all-access pass? I visit every attraction. Taste every offering. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied. In every way.”

  He flashed that wide, Cheshire catlike grin that he knew damn well worked on women. Me included. I wondered how that smile would morph into something delighted—something triumphant—if I brought him home for the night. Even here, in the middle of what had to be the corniest restaurant on the planet, I felt like we were chug-chug-chugging our way to the top of a roller coaster and I was breathless for the drop.

  We settled into our seats as a cliff-diving show was starting. I thought Chris might combust from excitement when the first diver took his position atop the towering thirty-foot faux rock face and back-flipped into the lagoon below. As we ate, Chris hollered and cheered at every tandem jump, swan dive, and twist. I’d invited him here as a joke, but now, seeing his face light up and his shoulders relax, I couldn’t help but enjoy myself.

  “Perhaps you should hang up the jersey and pursue cliff diving instead,” I said as I assembled a fajita.

  Chris shot me a lopsided grin. “But then fans would miss out on my touchdown dance.”

  “Right. Because your dancing skills are so spectacular. When your football career ends, you should consider appearing on Dancing with the Stars.”

  At my words, his expression changed, the carefree joy slipping from his features. The look he wore now was guarded, almost defensive, and I wondered what I’d said to offend him.

  “I’d rather sit on my couch and gorge on nineties reruns,” he said, his tone oddly formal.

  “And relive your pubescent celebrity crush fantasies?” I took a bite, forcing myself to swallow—the dog food at the shelter probably tasted better.

  “Hell, yeah. I could stare at Amy Jo Johnson all day long.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, come on. She played Kimberly Hart on Power Rangers. You know, the pink one who had the ability to turn her skin into any material she touched?” Chris said it like I’d been hiding under a rock growing up. Which wasn’t that far off the mark. I’d been painfully shy as a child, then as I’d gotten older and things at home had become tenser, I’d withdrawn into someone cautious and reserved. It had really only been during the odd weekend or evening I’d spent with my uncle at his sprawling estate that I’d felt like a normal kid.