by Kate Aster
Chapter 2
~ ALLIE ~
If a stray cat walks by, I’ll be dragged into the street.
I have three dogs attached to me, one in each hand, and a third whose leash has somehow wrapped itself around my ankle. It is the best I can do under the circumstances. Two of my volunteers have yet to show up, and two more texted me saying they’re sick.
Sick. Yeah, right. The sky is the color of the blue topaz pendants that sparkle in the window of the jewelry store just five doors down from where I sit, and a warm breeze is blowing in from the South. It is a perfect day in May in America’s heartland, and I swear I can smell the moist soil being tilled on Len Kroger’s farm a mile south of town.
My deadbeat volunteers are probably lounging on their hammocks, sipping a Starbucks right now, or writing up a grocery list for a spontaneous neighborhood barbeque because it’s just that kind of day in Newton’s Creek. That’s what I’d be doing if I didn’t feel the weight of adorable furry lives bearing down on me every day.
Sinking my back into the uncomfortable folding chair outside Sally Sweet’s Pet Boutique, I watch the slow but steady trickle of traffic on Anders Road, which is pretty much our town’s Main Street.
I like this street because it seems frozen in time. My dad used to tell me that half the stores he had shopped at as a kid were still open here, even if they are struggling now in today’s economy. There’s a five-and-dime across from me where Dad used to buy me balls of cherry blast gum or a pretzel rod for a nickel anytime we visited. It is the kind of street where people always greet me as I sit with my rescued dogs trying to find them homes.
Even after spending half my night wallowing in my humiliation after bailing on the hottest man alive, I’m feeling pretty content sitting out here just like I do every Saturday morning for two hours with my canine friends.
Life is like that. You fall in a pile of mud. You get up. You move on.
I spot Cass hauling ass across the street toward me, dragged by a 75-pound husky mix on a leash. I sigh with relief and longing when I see the cardboard tray she holds sporting three large coffees, mine heavily spiked with cream and sugar if she got my text fifteen minutes ago.
Slow down, Snowball. Don’t make her spill my coffee.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she sets the coffee down on the concrete beside me and takes one of the leashes from my hands.
“Don’t worry about it,” I respond, greedily taking the cup and sucking in a hot mouthful of caffeinated decadence. “Thanks.”
“Am I the only one here so far?”
“No. Maddie and Lila are inside with the little ones,” I say as I give a toss of my head in the direction of the pet store entrance. The little ones are a Chihuahua and a Maltese, both likely to have homes by the end of the week from the number of applications I have in hand for each of them. It is so much easier to rehome the little guys.
I unwind Crocco’s leash from my leg and put it in my hand, getting licked by Snowball in the process.
Cass’s eyes meet mine briefly as she gives Crocco a pat in greeting. “You look tired.”
I know she’s talking to me, not Crocco, despite his permanently weary bloodhound eyes. He is a mutt in the extreme, and I struggled to choose a breed in his listing on our website. Even my dad, who was a vet for twenty-five years, would have had a hard time nailing it down. But Crocco’s eyes are all bloodhound.
I grunt my reply, not exactly ready to explore my indiscretions of last night. Or my lack of indiscretions, as the case may be. Cass is my friend, and a pretty good one, even though I’ve only known her a matter of weeks. But really, as the founder of this shoestring rescue organization I need to keep some measure of dignity.
“You sick or something?” Her big, blue eyes—the exact shade of the sky this May day—are prying open my bounty of secrets from last night. But I clamp my mouth shut.
Cass is gorgeous. Freaking gorgeous. She moved here from New York City for a summer job at an amusement park called Buckeye Land, Ohio’s second rate Disney World knock-off. I’ve never been there since it opened up after I had outgrown the I-wanna-be-a-fairy-princess stage of my life.
Cass doesn’t even need a costume to look like the princess she was hired to portray. She has platinum blonde hair and a pearly white smile that could make a man’s head do a 180 as he plows his Lexus into a telephone pole. If I had her looks there would be no way I’d hang out in front of a pet store with a bunch of dogs when I could be sitting in front of a mirror somewhere just admiring myself.
But that’s just me. And I guess the thrill of being gorgeous would wear thin after a while.
“Not sick. Just was out late last night,” I finally confess.
“Oh, that’s unusual for you, isn’t it?”
I raise an eyebrow. I know she didn’t mean it in an insulting way. I work two jobs and foster dogs in my little one-bedroom condo. My free time is usually spent walking down Anders Street with three dogs and a fistful of poop bags. So unless it’s for business, I tend to go out about once or twice a Presidential administration.
“What’d you do?” she asks.
“I was supposed to meet Mary. She said she had a great idea for booking more parties this summer. You know how things slow down. But she never showed.”
“Didn’t she cancel on you last week?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why you put up with her.”
I shrug. Mary books about twelve sex toy parties a year, and since I was the one who signed her up as a rep, I get a piece of the pie every time she makes a sale. So I’ll put up with her.
Granted, selling sex toys wasn’t what I wanted to do when I was growing up. And it sure wasn’t why I slogged through college.
But my real job working as an executive assistant for a nonprofit based in Cincinnati barely pays enough to cover my mortgage, let alone dog food for three and vet bills.
I moved to Newton’s Creek just two days after I graduated from college, not the best place for new grads to go looking for a job unless you majored in agricultural sciences. My mom had gotten remarried—too quickly after my dad’s death, in my humble opinion—and something inside me wanted to move to my dad’s hometown.
I don’t know why. I was probably chasing ghosts. Or just wanting to keep him with me in any way I could.
When I was a junior in college my dad died of an aneurism. He had seemed healthy as a horse only two months prior when I kissed him on the cheek and promised I’d come home to Cleveland for Thanksgiving.
Sometimes, like right now when I’m thinking of him, I can still feel the warmth of his cheek against my lips and see the sheen of tears in his eyes as he said good-bye to me. I was Daddy’s little girl—Daddy’s only child, actually—and he had hated to see me go. He spoiled me every day of my life. Not with things, because we didn’t have the money for that. But with love.
And with pets. Dad was a vet with a very special place in his heart for abandoned and neglected animals, so much so that people started dumping their unwanted pets at our house rather than at the local pound.
So when I settled here in his hometown, the first stop I made was the county shelter. I had thought I’d adopt a dog, but instead of just walking out with one dog for myself, I walked out with three… and a mission.
My “day job” boss, Nancy, who started a nonprofit of her own about ten years ago, helped me establish my fledgling rescue organization as a 501(c)(3) charity. Then I put a sign in Sally Sweet’s Pet Boutique asking for volunteer foster homes. It was really a lot simpler than I had dreamed it would be.
I smile now at the memory of when I placed my first rescue dog in his new home. That was 53 dogs ago. Yet still not enough.
“Where’d you go?”
“Hmm?” Cass’s voice snaps me back to the present. “Bergin’s. The hotel bar.”
Barely registering as a blip on the GPS, the town of Newton’s Creek doesn’t have many places to meet up for happy hour. So if you’re over 21 and single in Newton’s
Creek (I think there are about twelve of us), you are definitely familiar with Bergin’s.
“Hmm.” She stretches her lavishly long legs in front of her. Cass actually modeled in New York, and I think it’s really odd that she seems content for the moment in Newton’s Creek. “So what was his name?” she asks me.
“Who?”
“The guy you don’t want to talk about.”
I slump in my chair, signaling my spaniel mix up onto my lap, while Crocco tugs mercilessly on his leash, attracted to the smell of the donut shop two doors down.
“Logan,” I mumble. To hell with keeping my dignity. I have three layers of dog spit on my shirt. Who am I kidding?
“Logan,” she repeats, glancing over at another one of my volunteers walking toward us on Anders Street. “Sounds like a made-up name.”
“Well, whoever he was, he bought me a nice dinner when Mary didn’t show up.”
Cass’s eyes widened. “Wow. A man who actually buys dinner. Last time I got invited to dinner here in town, we went for fast food, and he still asked me to split the bill.”
This is hard to believe coming from Cass. With her looks, she could seduce a prince or a sheik or a billionaire oil mogul. Or any combination of the above. But I guess there aren’t many of those in Newton’s Creek.
“What’s he do?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what is he? Pilot? Lawyer? Doctor? Sports agent? They’re never just carpet salesmen or accountants at a hotel bar. They always come up with something good.”
I hate that she is right. “SEAL,” I mumble, giving a wave to my friend Kim about a hundred feet away as our eyes meet.
“A seal?” Cass’s face is scrunched up.
I can tell by her expression she’s picturing a marine mammal at the Cincinnati Zoo, balancing a ball on its nose and going, “Ar! Ar!”
“SEAL. Like, as in Navy SEAL,” I clarify.
She bursts out laughing just as Kim approaches, reaching out for Crocco’s leash.
“What’s so funny?” Kim asks.
“Allie met a guy at Bergin’s last night who told her he was a Navy SEAL.”
Shaking her head, Kim’s eyes narrow into tiny slits. “That bastard. I’ve heard about guys like that. They lie and pretend they’re heroes to get free drinks and stuff.”
“Or to get laid,” Cass adds with enough authority that I suspect she’s met a fake SEAL or something similar in her past.
My face droops, Basset-hound-style. I hadn’t considered that. “Well, he actually might be one. He told me a lot of stuff about their training and the places he’s lived.”
“Probably read some stuff in a book or something.” Kim shakes her head. “Haven’t you seen all those stories recently? Total losers pretending to be in the military? It’s all over the news these days. It so pisses me off.”
I actually have seen those stories. I surf the web as much as the next girl. But I hadn’t suspected he was a fake last night. Nothing seemed fake about that guy, especially not those magnificent pecs that I had ogled while we ate. Even now, remembering the way the smooth fabric on his shirt seemed to showcase his sculpted torso makes my body hum. “I don’t know. He was pretty convincing. I mean, you guys didn’t see him. The guy had six-pack abs.”
Cass raises a single eyebrow at me. “Allie, we’re in Ohio. The only Navy SEALs you’ll find around here are the ones in my fantasies. The guy was a fake.”
Kim reaches down and lets Crocco slather wet kisses on her arm. I’ve known Kim since I started this organization. She’s never been able to foster a dog because she lives with her parents right now. But I can’t remember a single Saturday when I couldn’t rely on her to help handle the dogs. “Wait a minute. How would you know he had a six-pack?” she ponders. “What’d he do? Strip down in the bar?”
My gut tightens. I’m caught. I hadn’t intended to tell anyone how I had followed him up to his hotel room, only to race back to the elevator in a fit of blind terror. “I could just tell. His arms were ripped. You know.” Arms, yeah. Focus on those arms and don’t get tempted into telling your friends that you had dared to touch a set of abs so fine they should be cast in bronze.
“Oh. My. God. You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“No,” I deny. I didn’t sleep with him. If I had, I might be sporting a wide Cheshire cat grin right now, and have a brain filled with dirty memories to last a lifetime.
Kim’s eyes widen. “You did. That’s totally out of character for you. He didn’t slip something in your drink, did he?”
“No, no,” I say. Not unless it was a pint of estrogen. “And I didn’t sleep with him. I swear it. We had dinner and that was it.”
“And you know about his abs, how exactly? Did he Vulcan mind-meld you?” Kim is a bit of a sci-fi geek and not afraid to show it.
“I might have felt one or two of them when we kissed.” Or three or four. Not that I was counting.
Unconvinced, Cass bites her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is he a good kisser, anyway?”
I blush from the memory of his lips on mine. “Damn good.”
Kim tightens up the leash on Crocco. “Well, thank God you didn’t sleep with him. Navy SEAL, my ass. Can’t believe you nearly fell for that. Probably uses that line all the time. He could have been an axe murderer, or a carrier of every STD around.”
I should have expected this reaction from Kim. She is a single mom of a four-year-old who swears anxiety is as much a part of motherhood as stretch marks.
“Shut up, killjoy. Besides, she would have used a condom. Right?” Cass glances at me for confirmation.
“Of course I would have.” I nod vehemently.
Kim raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, and if condoms were foolproof, I wouldn’t be a mom right now.”
I shoot her a silencing look as an older man approaches, about my dad’s age if he were still alive. He pets our dogs for a while and talks about one of the dogs he had seen online. My heart does a happy dance when he tells me he already filled out an application—a sign that he’s serious about adopting. I pull a small stack of applications I printed out this morning from my backpack and find his close to the top.
Giving him an encouraging grin, I point him in the direction of the pet store’s door where Lila has the Chihuahua. Hope wraps itself around my heart. The man seems perfect for Dollie. No kids. An apartment that allows dogs. All I’ll have to do is swing by for a house check and call a few references, and I’ll have one more open slot in a foster home.
And one more dog I can save from the county shelter. That is enough to make me take a sip of my latte, imagining it is celebratory champagne.
“He’s perfect for Dollie,” Kim comments, and I’m happy that we’ve moved on to a different topic. “Seems very calm. That dog is so hyper. I’m surprised you even had Lila bring her today.”
I toss my shoulders upward. “She’s okay if we keep her indoors. And she’s easier to manage than Streamer.” Streamer is Lila’s other foster, a MinPin that pees every time he meets someone new. I don’t have enough volunteers to bring all of our dogs to these Saturday events, and have to pick the ones who make the best impression. Streamer is definitely not the cream of the crop among our rescues.
The second hour of our event approaches, and we’re starting to see more traffic.
As another couple hands me their application and gives Crocco a final pat on the head, I feel a strange prickling up my spine, as though someone’s hand is touching the nape of my neck.
And I see him approach, feeling the air rush out of my lungs.
Logan?
What the hell?
For a split second, I’m thinking the guy is stalking me. I know. Laughable, considering he has this spectacular Greek god bod, and I’m just… me. But when I see the complete shock in his eyes, I know he isn’t exactly expecting to run into me either.
Then the humiliation settles over me like a wet blanket, remembering how I ditched him last night. As he walks to
ward us, I just stare at him, dumbfounded, suddenly oblivious to what Kim is saying to me as I nod in response, completely on auto-pilot.
I hear Cass give a low whistle as Logan nears and I know she must have spotted him. You can’t not see a guy like Logan approaching. At least, not if you’re a heterosexual female under the age of 80.
Logan stands above me, towering over my speechless form as I melt into my folding chair from his mere presence. Even in the daylight, the guy is hot. No, he is hotter. No wonder I nearly got naked with him.
“Alexandra,” he says, and I hear Cass whimper at the sound of his voice uttering my name. The guy could be a phone sex operator with a voice like that. Come to think of it, if I signed him on as a sex toy rep, sales would quadruple and I could retire ten years earlier than planned. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I—uh—” I stammer. What am I doing here? Oh, yeah. “I run a dog rescue. We’re here every Saturday morning so that people can meet and uh, maybe adopt a dog.” The words are stumbling from my mouth, but I’m not even sure what I am saying. Being close to this much testosterone in the morning is inebriating. Two more minutes in his presence and I’ll turn into a blithering idiot.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m here to see Kosmo.”
Kosmo. Seriously? This guy wants to see the chocolate Lab mix I’ve been fostering for the past six months? No one wants to see Kosmo. They all ask how he’s doing, but no one wants to actually adopt him. I had taken Kosmo home from the shelter, not knowing that he’d end up being our most costly foster ever. Not that that would have stopped me. There was something about his soulful eyes that had drawn me to him, and once I took his face in my hands and stroked his furry cheeks, I was a goner.
But Kosmo turned out to be a special needs dog. He has a valve in his heart that won’t close all the way, requiring expensive medication and a surgery as soon as I can afford it. Donations for the heart procedure are trickling in. But as of now, the medicine is paid for straight out of my sex toys sales, like so many of the other expenses that come with my fosters. Who would have thought I’d be selling dildos for dogs?
