A smile spread across my sister’s face. “Then it’s time to do what you do best.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Shock and awe and charm, FIGJAM,” Gwen said. “Shock and awe and charm.”
* * *
A few hours later, armed and ready, I waltzed into Rescue Granted in search of Hazel. I found her in the rehabilitation area, crouched down on her hands and knees on the floor of Olive’s kennel, using a soothing, gentle voice and a Nylabone in an attempt to coax Olive out from under the bed. Frozen’s “Let It Go” was playing on the boom box, and I considered telling Hazel she should perhaps take the song’s advice based on the lack of success she was having.
“Olive, you adored this plastic toy yesterday. You chewed on it for hours, so what’s the matter?” Hazel asked, sticking her arm farther beneath the bed. Olive scooted closer to the wall, her tail tucked between her legs.
I leaned against the kennel’s open door, trying to keep my eyes off Hazel’s ass raised in the air and failing. “I thought you were aware that Olive strictly adheres to the buddy system—she’s not budging an inch without her wingman present.”
Hazel jolted at the sound of my voice, banging her forehead on Olive’s metal bed frame. Guilt sliced through me at startling her, but then Hazel sat back on her heels, blowing wisps of hair out of her eyes, and I laughed at the murderous expression on her face. I couldn’t help it. She was beautiful when she was pissed off.
“How about you try these,” I said, passing her the container of cookies Gwen had helped me bake.
“What are they?” Hazel popped off the lid and scrutinized the snickerdoodles as though they might poison her.
I shrugged and hooked my thumbs in my belt loops. “Treats that both humans and dogs can enjoy.”
“Is this your pathetic attempt at an apology for the gala?” she asked.
“Nope. I tendered my pathetic apology last time we saw each other. I’m moving on to plan B.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Wooing you, Hazel Grant.” Speaking the words out loud, hearing the conviction in my tone, only served to solidify my earlier belief that Hazel was absolutely worth the effort.
She shook her head and looked at me as if I were as appealing as a mutt with hookworms. “That won’t work, Lalonde.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, then began to whistle along with Elsa.
The moment my whistle transformed into a hum, Olive’s little black nose appeared at the edge of the bed frame, her big brown eyes following, her tail thumping on the ground.
Hazel huffed in indignation. “Leave it to you to have a voice only a dog could love.”
I grinned that insufferable grin she pretended to hate. This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER TEN
Hazel
White-knuckling my way along I-25 toward the shelter, weighed down by an accident up ahead, slow-moving traffic, and a building snowstorm, my nerves and patience were disappearing quicker than lit dynamite. So when my cell phone rang, angrily buzzing against the cup holder in the center console, I jumped and nearly skidded into the car to my right.
I glanced at the screen, my heartbeat quickening at the sight of Imogen’s number. I hadn’t received any updates about my application regarding the Denver Day of Giving event, and I hoped she was calling to deliver good news.
“Hi, Imogen, this is a pleasant surprise,” I said, flinching at the sirens wailing in the distance. This wasn’t the most professional environment—or the safest—for this conversation, but my schedule this week was jam-packed. If I didn’t hear her news now, it could be days before I had the chance to speak with her.
As it stood, I was already late for my meeting with the veterinary oncologist at the shelter that had taken me months to secure. I intended to discuss the possibility of the woman joining the Rescue Granted team of doctors who provided their services and expertise in a pro bono capacity, and if I canceled, I risked losing my chance.
“You know, Hazel, when you take my advice, you really take it!” Imogen’s laugh burst through the line.
I frowned, then it clicked. “Oh, you must be referring to the article in Sunday’s newspaper about the puppy mill raid and how Rescue Granted accepted a large portion of the dogs recovered from the bust.”
It was a small shout-out to the shelter, but a shout-out nonetheless. At this point, any attention helped. Especially because I hadn’t hired a social media intern to grow the shelter’s community engagement as I’d promised. Between Chris’s disruptive presence and my own conflicting emotions, there’d been no time for me to draft up a job description to post let alone find a suitable candidate.
“Yes, that story was certainly positive, but I’m referring to the fact that the Colorado Blizzards’ Chris Lalonde is volunteering for your organization.” Her voice went up an octave even as she’d whispered his name like some high school girl confessing at lunch that the hottest guy in the sophomore class had winked at her. But then, given the way Chris so effortlessly turned me inside out, I couldn’t really blame her.
“Oh, right, Mr. Infamous Wide Receiver,” I said, pressing down hard on the brakes and nearly hitting the bumper in front of me. My tires swerved dangerously close to the edge of my lane, and blood rushed in my ears. The fat flakes of snow dumping from the sky and sticking to the roads weren’t helping my anxiety—what had started as a light dusting was quickly morphing into a full-fledged blizzard.
“The ability to snag such a high-profile spokesman is huge, Hazel,” Imogen said, returning to her more pleasant, businesslike tone. “I can’t overstate how important visibility is these days.”
“We utilize every volunteer who comes through the doors to our advantage—Rescue Granted is understaffed as it is,” I said as traffic miraculously began to unwind. Just the feeling of accelerating calmed me.
“While Chris has many talents, his greatest asset is his celebrity. Employ it to your benefit,” she urged. “The foundation has been receiving calls all morning from people who want to see your shelter—and specifically Chris—included in the Denver Day of Giving event. Rescue Granted has officially made the short list of nonprofits for consideration.”
“Really?”
Imogen chuckled. “Hazel, Chris’s recent scandal may be bad for him professionally, but let’s be honest, to the women of Denver, he’s still the city’s hottest and most eligible bachelor. His name alone will bring in the donations. So exploit him, okay?”
Normally I’d object to such an idea, especially when the result was for my personal gain, but I decided not to bother, since Chris would probably encourage Imogen with a confident “Exploit me, baby.” Still, no matter how much Chris fed into people’s perception of him, manipulating him in that way didn’t feel right.
I finally passed the pileup that had been moved off to the shoulder and drove around the rubbernecks gawking at the scene. I got over to the right lane, and as I rounded the curve in the highway, I nearly slammed on the brakes and caused another wreck when I saw the billboard stationed at my exit.
“What the hell . . . ?” I said, not entirely convinced I wasn’t hallucinating. Or perhaps the snow was impairing my vision.
“Is everything okay?” Imogen asked, concern entering her tone.
“Everything’s fine,” I murmured, still not believing my eyes. Plastered on that billboard was a photograph of a smiling Chris Lalonde, shirtless with jeans slung low on his hips, revealing the muscles that cut down both sides of his abdomen, lying in a white fluffy bed surrounded by a dozen puppies. The only way this image gets any better is if you join us, was splashed across the top of the ad. In smaller, bold print along the bottom were the words “Rescue Granted, dog rehabilitation clinic and shelter, now accepting adoption applications.”
“Imogen, can I call you back? Something’s come up.” I promised to phone her tomorrow, then hung up and sped the remainder of the way to the shelter.
When Chris had claimed he inten
ded to woo me, I thought he’d meant something generic and unoriginal like store-bought flowers or a singing telegram. But this? The entire city of Denver would see it, and he knew that. He was fully aware of the weight his endorsement carried, as well as the exposure it would bring to my organization.
The man had more gall and more game than I’d given him credit for. The bastard. When had he found the time to plan a shoot of this magnitude anyway? It’d been only a few days since he’d shown up with the snickerdoodle cookies. Plus, hadn’t he been busy preparing for the Blizzards’ upcoming matchup against the Saints?
I parked in the shelter’s loading zone and stormed into the office, the shrill ring of multiple phone lines greeting me. Already the billboard seemed to be working.
Chris was sitting in my chair, feet kicked up on the desk and hands linked behind his head, a smug smile on his face. His sweater was hiked up just enough to expose a tanned sliver of skin, and I attempted to glance everywhere other than at the thin line of hair that trailed beneath his belly button. Still, I swallowed, envisioning what the hard muscle would feel like against my fingertips, my lips.
Son of a bitch Quit it.
“How was the commute?” he asked, his grin growing wider. “Let me guess, you’re torn between wanting to neuter me and kiss me again. But before you settle on option A, remember the rescue puppies on the billboard.”
“I fix dogs daily, Lalonde. I’m not squeamish. Or deterred.”
And, damn, if I also wasn’t charmed.
* * *
Walking into the lobby of Rescue Granted two days later, boxes containing prescription medication stacked in my arms, I nearly tripped on a small lump blocking the front entrance rug. I gazed down, my eyes growing wide as Olive popped her little head up, huffed, then flopped onto her back to expose her belly to the sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the tip of her tail thumping.
“Olive?” I asked, shocked and delighted.
She’d made great strides recently, managing to leave the confines of her kennel, socializing with other dogs in the yard, and even allowing me to pet her on occasion, but usually not without significant cajoling, three dozen treats, or Chris present—I swore he only had to sing a ridiculous tune or crook a finger and Olive would trail behind him like a love-struck schoolgirl. Which meant the handsome bastard had to be around here somewhere—Olive wouldn’t feel calm and safe enough to sunbathe in the lobby otherwise.
I kneeled down, the packages in my grasp wobbling like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but the moment I reached out to scratch her side, she rolled onto her stomach, let out a low growl that was more of a rumble, and trotted away, probably in search of her wingman. Wonderful.
Sure enough, Olive resettled at Chris’s feet, curling up where he sat in the reception waiting area, laughing and chatting with Penny and Jay, the man interested in adopting Meatball. What was he doing here? I sighed and walked over to them.
“There’s the woman of the hour,” Chris said, his face brightening as I approached.
“Jay was in the neighborhood, so he dropped in to check on Meatball,” Penny said, her tone as cautious as her expression, as though my irritation regarding Jay’s sudden presence was radiating off me in waves. I bristled at the sight of Meaty’s folder resting in her lap, and she shifted in her seat and cast her gaze away.
“Great to see you again, Ms. Grant,” Jay said with a warm smile. Dressed in a crisp navy suit with sandy blond hair and next-day stubble, he resembled one of those innocuously attractive, mildly charismatic men on commercials for business-class airlines or midtier sedans. “I’m glad I stopped by. Chris mentioned Meatball’s adoption fell through due to the mother changing her mind. In light of that, I hope you’ll reconsider my application.”
Damn, the guy was persistent.
“I’ll certainly review it again,” I said, even though I had no intention of following through.
I shot Chris a glare that indicated we needed to talk later, which he either ignored or couldn’t interpret, though I’d guess the former. It wasn’t his place to share that sort of information with Jay—each dog’s file was kept confidential for a reason. Over the years, I’d experienced everything from angry, neglectful owners trying to reclaim their pets to the threats that came from raided puppy mills and animal-fighting rings. And while I didn’t believe Jay was harmful, Meatball’s status wasn’t his business, nor was I 100 percent sure he could adequately care for my favorite pit bull.
Penny cleared her throat, gesturing to the boxes in my arms, and faced Jay. “As you can tell, Hazel’s juggling a lot right now. So how about we rehash our earlier conversation with her, and we’ll give you a call?”
“Sounds great, thanks.” Jay stood, Chris and Penny doing the same, shook their hands, and dipped his chin at me. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I waited until Jay had disappeared into the parking lot and driven away before rounding on Penny. “ ‘We’ll give you a call ’? Really?”
She actually had the audacity to shrug at me. “How else was I supposed to respond? ‘Get lost, Jay, Hazel doesn’t like you’?”
“In nicer terms, but yes,” I said, setting the packages on the reception desk.
Penny sighed and shook her head as Chris asked, “What do you have against the guy, anyway?” He laced his fingers together and extended his arms in a stretch that had the corded muscles of his shoulders bunching and flexing, visible even beneath his heavy cable-knit sweater, causing all sorts of unsavory thoughts to rush through my mind. Olive mirrored his movements, sticking her front paws out with her butt high in the air and releasing a yawn. “Jay seems decent to me—I didn’t pick up on a single red flag while he was talking to us.”
“I agree,” Penny said. “Were you aware that Jay grew up around pit bulls? His family had three of them as pets—showed us pictures and everything. Which means he’s already familiar with the care and attention the breed requires.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. Why hadn’t Jay included that detail on the initial paperwork he’d provided? Perhaps he thought it wouldn’t matter. Still . . .
“His history with pit bulls is certainly worth noting, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jay is a workaholic. Meatball needs a companion, not an invisible guardian.” Why was I the only one concerned about this?
“Hazel, give the guy a break. Jay even commented that he just made partner at his law firm, which is the reason he’d been putting in such hellish hours at the office, but since then things have settled down drastically for him. There isn’t an issue here,” Chris cut in, his voice climbing an octave as Olive jumped and scratched at his thigh, as though she was worried that with all this Meatball chatter, Chris might replace her as his wingwoman. I was just happy to see Olive inviting someone to touch her.
“Maybe not in your limited viewpoint, but this isn’t exactly your area of expertise, Chris,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “My gut tells me Jay’s not the right fit for Meaty.”
“Have you considered that not all first impressions are accurate, especially in this situation?” Chris leaned against the reception desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, and peered at me as though he knew I didn’t have a good answer. “Otherwise, I’d have been fired weeks ago.”
“I wasn’t aware firing you was an option,” I said, matching his pointed stare with one of my own.
Penny rolled her eyes and tucked Meaty’s file under her arm. “Listen, Hazel, the truth is that Meatball has been here longer than any of our other difficult-to-place dogs. At this rate, his prospects outside of Jay are nil—”
“Exactly,” Chris interjected. “So what’s the worst-case scenario? That you take a chance on someone who doesn’t work out, or that Meatball is left to linger here alone?”
I sighed. As much as I hated to admit it, Chris had a point. The longer Meatball remained at Rescue Granted, the worse his chances became of getting adopted—and the longer I h
ad to wait to bring in another desperate dog to help.
“Okay, fine. Draw up the paperwork,” I said grudgingly, my words warring with my instincts.
Based on everything Chris had shown me—bonding with Olive, the ridiculous billboard display, the diligent and prompt work he’d put in at the shelter—I’d been wrong about him, so maybe I was wrong about Jay, too. For the first time, I found myself hoping I wouldn’t turn out to be right.
* * *
The iron gate to the small-breed play area clanged shut and Penny marched through, looking furious.
“You better come with me,” she said, her dark, curly hair frizzier than normal and cheeks flushed, though I didn’t think it was from the cold. “Your fairy godmother has arrived.”
I squinted and tilted my head. “I’m not understanding,” I said, nearly losing my balance as Waffles slipped on a patch of ice in the grass and collided nose-first with my shin. He plopped his happy butt on the ground and stared up at me as if he couldn’t fathom why I was all the way up here, well out of licking range.
Penny huffed, her breath escaping in white puffs, and gestured impatiently at me. “Just trust me.” Then she marched away, leaving me standing there more confused than ever.
I handed over control of the small-breed play area to my volunteer Donna and followed Penny straight into what could only be described as a three-ring circus. A massive truck with PETSVILLE USA printed on the side consumed almost the entire parking lot. Chris stood at the open cargo area, directing two delivery guys like a flight attendant as they lowered a mechanical ramp onto the asphalt. News crews from various local stations were set up in the grass flanking the area, the reporters all talking into their microphones while they faced the camera, the shelter providing the backdrop.
“What in the hell is going on?” I asked, watching as box after box was unloaded and placed onto dollies. “Who ordered all of this? And what is it?”
“Ask jolly old Saint Chris over there. He seems perfectly at home wrangling the elves who, by the way, sneered at me when I told them you were busy.” Penny rolled her eyes, then pointed at the man jogging across the lot to us. “That’s the Petsville store rep.”
Rescuing the Receiver Page 13
