“For what?” Ashanti snatched the letter Deja gestured to from the reception desk.
“She says the incessant barking has given her cats anxiety and she wants you to pay for their medication.”
“She can kiss my—” Ashanti stopped herself before she could curse again. “What is it with this woman? I know a lot of the people here were against allowing businesses to open in residential areas—the same has happened on my street in St. Roch—but we go out of our way to be courteous neighbors.”
“I think it’s more thetypeof business you opened that Mrs. Short is against,” Deja pointed out. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a fan of cats.”
“Whatever,” Ashanti said. “I think she just likes being petty and vindictive.” She tossed the letter back onto the desk. “Maybe I should report her for all the cigarette butts that mysteriously find their way onto our side of the fence. I picked up three in the exercise pen yesterday.”
“Go for it,” Deja encouraged.
Or, maybe this was a sign that sheshouldfinally go for that property in the Bywater. If anything qualified as the last straw, being reported to the city council because there was barking coming from a daycare center fordogsshould be it.
“I need to hug my Duchess,” Ashanti said.
She made her way to her favorite area of the daycare. The smaller of the two playrooms’ aesthetic was a nod to her Frenchie’s white-and-black piebald coat, with splashes of purple to add a royal flare. Portraits of Duchess hung on the walls in gilded frames. Was it a bit over the top? Absolutely. But when it came to her baby there was no top.
Seconds after she entered the room, Ashanti was bombarded by a cadre of feisty canines with Napoleon complexes. This is what she missed the most. Having to devote so much time to baking, she didn’t get to play with the dogs nearly as much as she wanted to.
“Hey, Lulu and Sparkle,” she greeted the Pomeranians, giving each dog one of the dime-sized treats from her pocket. “And how is my favorite Chihuahua,” she called to Bingo, who had been coming to the daycare since the first week it opened. She followed the treats with quick head rubs for each dog, then went in search of Duchess.
“Where’s my dog?” Ashanti asked Leslie, who was running the Parkers’ Cavalier King Charles through the agility maze. Leslie gestured to cushioned mats in the corner.
Ashanti walked over and found Duchess hugged up next to Puddin’. The two lay in a yin-yang pattern, with Duchess’s head nestled against Puddin’s chest, and her squat legs arcing around the puffy topknot atop the poodle’s head.
“Kara was right. You two really do need a room.”
At the sound of her voice, Duchess’s stubby tail started wagging like a windshield wiper gone haywire, but she still didn’t move away from Puddin’.
“If you don’t get over here,” Ashanti said. She reached down and lifted Duchess into her arms. “Don’t forget whokeeps you in tiaras and rawhide,” she said, nuzzling the dog’s flat nose with her own.
Static crackled through the intercom system a second before Deja’s uneasy voice came through the line. “Umm, Ashanti, can you come up to reception?”
Ashanti shut her eyes. If it was Mrs. Short lobbing another complaint about dog shit she was going to lose it.
“Lord, grant me the wisdom to know the difference,” she said, setting Duchess on the mat. She quickly made her way through the maze of rooms and back up to reception. Her steps faltered when she slid open the pocket doors.
That was not Mrs. Short.
3
Ashanti took in the man waiting just to the right of the reception desk. He stood with arms crossed over a very nice, incredibly solid-looking chest. Sunglasses—seriously, dude, wearing sunglasses inside?—covered what appeared to be a very nice, incredibly chiseled, light brown face. He could cut steel with that jawline.
Several tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his short-sleeved T-shirt, which strained around sinewy biceps. His sculpted muscles looked as if they had been carved out of the granite she wanted for her kitchen countertops.
He was average height, yet he took up too much space, standing there with his legs braced apart and an irritated look on his face. Guess she wasn’t the only one having a sucky Monday.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“This guy says he’s here to pick up Puddin’,” Deja offered.
Ashanti’s forehead furrowed with instant skepticism.
Puddin’ had been a round-the-clock boarder for the past five weeks, ever since her owner suffered a fall. Frances Sutherland had called Ashanti from the ambulance, asking her to goto her home in Tremé to retrieve her beloved poodle. Ashanti had made sure someone at the daycare texted her a daily photo ever since.
“How do you know Puddin’?” she asked, looking at the portrait of Harry and Meghan just above his shoulder instead of his appealing jawline. The Sussexes were safer.
“It’s my grandmother’s dog,” he said. “She sent me to pick it up.”
