“I think we should call him Ghost,” Travis says.
Heather groans. “You can’t take him home, Travis. Jacob, tell him he can’t take him home.”
The dog looks at me and thumps its ratty tail a bit harder.
“Why not?” Travis says. “He doesn’t belong to anyone. And he ran out in front of my car twice. That’s, like, fate.”
“He’s a stray,” Heather says. “He probably has fleas, and ticks?—”
“Easily fixed,” Travis says.
“—and he might be violent?—”
“Oh, yeah, I’m really scared,” Travis says, as the dog starts licking his hand.
“—and you already have a girl dog, and he’s probably not neutered?—”
“Also an easy fix.”
“—and we’re in a foreign country! You can’t just pick dogs up off the street and fly them home. It doesn’t work like that, there’s got to be a process.”
Travis shrugs. “It can’t be that hard.”
Heather groans and looks at me. “Talk some sense into him, please.”
I look at the dog, then at Travis, then at Heather’s imploring gaze. I could probably earn a lot of brownie points with her if I took her side on this.
Instead, I grin at Travis. “It can’t be that hard,” I agree.
Heather groans again as Travis beams. “You like the name?” he says.
“I love it.” I hold my hand out to the dog, who sniffs it cautiously and then clamps his jaws around it. Not biting, just holding it gently, like my hand is a fun new toy.
“You’re going to get rabies,” Heather says. But then she comes forward to pet the dog, too, and looks extremely smug when it gets super excited and tries to jump up on her shoulders. “I suppose I’m the one who’s going to find a vet to take him to, and sort out how to get him home, am I?”
“I don’t remember paying anyone else to be my PA,” Travis says.
“You were so shy when I first met you,” Heather mutters. But then she goes off for five minutes and miraculously reappears with a collar and a leash, which she procured from Cole Milton, of all people.
“He takes his dog with him everywhere,” she says, which is weird, because I’ve literally never seen that guy with a dog in my life. It’s probably some snooty expensive breed with its own private security detail. Still, it makes me hate Cole Milton a little less, which is annoying.
“Now smile for a picture,” Heather tells Travis, holding up her phone and waving me out of the frame. “I’m going to post this on your Instagram.”
“What? Why?” Travis complains. In the six months since we got back together, he’s posted exactly three times on his Instagram, always at Heather’s insistence and under heavy protest.
“In case I need to persuade the authorities that millions of people would complain if they don’t let you take him home.”
Travis sighs but smiles obediently for the photo, which Heather immediately posts on his account with the caption, “New best friend.”
If it has less than a million likes by morning, I’ll be shocked.
We spend a few minutes playing with the dog—Ghost—then Heather takes him off to find a twenty-four-hour veterinarian.
“You want us to come with you?” I offer.
She heaves an exaggerated sigh. “It’s fine. Go get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”
Travis loops an arm around my waist and pulls me against him the moment she’s gone. “Are you exhausted?” he asks, in a tone that sets my blood pulsing harder.
