I excuse myself to go find Bash. He’s in the back room, already washing a Pug named Winifred. The scent of sweet almond shampoo fills the air, mingling with the tang of wet fur. As soon as I lay eyes on him, some of the nerves leave my body.
As if sensing my gaze, Bash turns, his hands still submerged in the tub. A soapy bubble clings to the end of his nose, and he wipes it off with his forearm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Elena is here.” I bite my lip, trying to steady my voice. “Could you just…I don’t know. Make sure you’re on your best behavior?”
He smirks, one dimple appearing in his stubbled cheek. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Bash.”
“I’m kidding, pumpkin.” His grin widens, but it softens when he sees my expression. “Of course I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll charm the pants off her if you’d like.”
Jealousy blooms, unbidden and sharp. The thought of Elena swooning over his smirk or his laugh hits me harder than I’d like to admit. “Well, maybe not that far.”
“Alright, got it.” He winks. “Be charming, but at a level which ensures all pants stay on.” He searches my face, probably expecting me to laugh. But he must see how nervous I am because his brows draw together in concern. “Romilly, it will be impossible for her to scrounge up anything bad to say, even if she tries. Trust me. You’re not doomed to fail again, I promise.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile from spreading. “Thanks. I’m going to see if she’s done taking photos.”
I speed-walk back to the lobby, where Elena is crouched near the counter, snapping a close-up of my decorative basket of grooming supplies. Her camera clicks rapidly, and her highlighted ponytail sways as she adjusts angles.
She looks up when she hears me approach. “Can you tell me about your color choice for the lobby? Maybe dive into what made you go with teal and pink?”
I chat with her for a while, explaining the inspiration behind the decor—calming tones to make pets feel at ease, paired with cheerful pops of pink to give the space personality. She nods along, her tablet balanced on her knee as she types furiously.
Thankfully, I chose not to schedule many dogs today. Mostly all of them are baths except for later this afternoon, when she’ll already be gone. This way, I can spend as much time as possible mitigating any negative impressions of my business she might form.
Elena seems satisfied with my answers, nodding as I speak and typing on her tablet with fingers that fly across the screen. A customer enters the salon, and both of our gazes dart to the door.
Mrs. Long, one of my elderly pet parents, hobbles in. I smile and greet her before turning back to Elena. “I’m going to let my bather know Mrs. Long is here to pick up Winifred.
I head back to the grooming station, where Bash is spritzing pet perfume on the Pug’s dry fur.
“Mrs. Long is here,” I tell him.
He nods and grabs her leash, securing it to Winifred with ease and patting her on the head. “Right. Let’s get you to your mum.”
I follow him to the front of the shop, where the evidence of last night’s rain is still visible through the windows. Droplets cling to the leaves of the oak trees lining the street, and the retention pond just outside glistens, brimming from the downpour.
Bash hands Winifred’s leash to Mrs. Long. “Here you go, ma’am,” he says, and heads to the computer to ring her up.
Elena studies him with open curiosity, her fingers pausing over her tablet before she scribbles something down. “Would you like me to include him in the article?” she asks, looking at me.
“Sure. His name is Sebastian Black and—fun fact—he’s also a professional fighter. His fighting name is Bash the Smasher.”
Her brows lift in intrigue, and she tucks a highlighted strand of hair behind her ear. “Interesting. I think readers will love that.”
After asking Bash a few questions, which he answers smoothly, she sighs in satisfaction. “Perfect. I think I’ve gotten just about everything I need here.”
“Great. I’ll walk you out, then. Thanks, Elena.”
Mrs. Long is already halfway out the door as we approach. She tries to hold the door for us with wobbling hands, but she loses grasp of Winifred, and the Pug goes running right out the door.
“Winifred!” Mrs. Long cries, reaching out, but it’s too late. “Not the water. Not the water. She can’t swim!”
The little dog bolts straight for the retention pond.
“No!” I shout, already sprinting after her.
Bash is faster. He darts past me, his long strides eating up the distance. By the time Winifred tumbles into the pond with a splash, Bash is already diving in after her.
