Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” he says, flashing me a grin. “We should probably…shower.”
“You think?” I tease, eyeing the red mess all over us. I love it. I love his shower, spending time with him, and—most of all—I love his big, generous heart for giving me this studio. The thought and care behind it touches me more than I can say.
But I swallow those feelings as we leave the studio, ready to hustle across the yard when a faint whimper catches my ear.
“What was that?” I ask, stopping mid-step. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah,” Asher replies, his brow furrowing.
I tilt my head, listening. Another soft whine comes from the bushes nearby. My senses go on high alert. “Is it a baby deer? A raccoon?” I wonder aloud as we move closer to the sound.
The grass rustles, and I jump as an animal emerges from the bushes—a black-and-white dog, with cool blue eyes, trembling slightly.
“Oh my god, baby, are you okay?” I crouch down instantly, reaching for her. But, of course, I’m still covered in red paint, and now her black and white fur is too, as I pull her close. She lets me hold her, the scared sweetheart. I gently run my hands over her thin frame, checking for a collar and tag. She’s shaking but doesn’t pull away, her tail tucked between her legs.
“No tag,” I say, glancing up at Asher, who’s now kneeling beside me, frowning. “She wasn’t here when we went into the studio.”
“Or maybe she was,” he says thoughtfully. “I bet she slipped in when the contractors were here earlier and hid.” His hand rests on her head, fingers gentle as he scratches behind her ears. “Let’s get her inside, clean her up.”
“And take her to the vet tomorrow to see if she’s chipped,” I add, standing and carefully lifting the dog into my arms. She’s way too light. “Come on, cutie-pie. Let’s get you cleaned and fed.”
The dog whimpers softly, pressing her head against my chest. All at once, I’m in love—it’s instant and irrepressible. We walk to the terrace and Asher opens the door. Once inside, we head upstairs to the bedroom, both of us still covered in paint.
“Group shower?” I suggest with a grin.
He laughs. “Obviously.”
A few minutes later, the three of us are in the rainfall shower, rinsing off paint and dirt.
Once I’m clean, I step out, wrap a towel around myself, and grab one for the dog. Asher hands the wet critter to me. She’s thirty pounds, maybe forty, a cross between a Border Collie and probably a Husky based on her pointy ears, her silky collie fur, and her ice-blue eyes that are somehow big and hopeful.
Asher finishes up and wraps a towel around his waist, grinning as he kneels beside her. “Look at you,” he says, drying her off some more. “You’re a whole new dog.”
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I say softly. “No more paint; no more dirt. But do you have a home?”
She licks my face, and my heart melts. I glance up at Asher, my eyes silently asking—can we keep her?
He strokes her head, noticing her slight shiver. “We’ll check Petfinder and call the rescues, get her scanned…”
“And then?” I ask, hopeful but nervous. I just want her to be okay.
“We’ll see what we find out,” he says, though I can tell from the way he rubs the towel over her head that he’s hoping we find out she needs us.
Me too.
We pull on clothes and head to the kitchen, where we find some rice for her. She gobbles it down, tail wagging. I get it. I like it here too. And I’m starting to think it feels possible to be friends and lovers.
50
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO
Asher
Maeve isn’t just secretly pleased five days later when a local rescue tells us no one has claimed the pup. We’ve scoured Petfinder, lost and found boards, and nearby shelters, even after the vet confirmed the little cutie has no microchip.
Maeve’s outwardly thrilled. She calls while I’m in Vancouver, right as I’m leaving the hotel to head to the arena for tonight’s game. After giving me the “cutie update,” as she calls the dog, she launches into how well-behaved the stray has been at the arena. She’d planned to bring her to a nearby dog daycare but decided to take her to work instead. Eleanor insisted on it when she learned Maeve had found a dog. No surprise there—this is the same woman who dresses her own dog up for portraits.
“She stays in a dog bed or sometimes a crate, and she’s practically perfect in every way. She was even pretty good when I took her in the Lyft to work. Sooo…can we keep her?”
Can we?
The two-word question tugs on my heart. Like it’s a we thing. Like it’s up to us.
“Maeve, I’m not in charge of this,” I say.