Chapter One
Jenny
Poop bags, check. Collapsible bowl, check. Giant-ass bottle of water, check. Belly bag with bottle holster, check. Carabiners, check. Cell phone, check. Keys…
I pat down my hips and scan around me. Nope, not in eyeline.
Ok, replay the last five minutes. I glance down at my belt to confirm I checked all the stuff for work. I’ve already put on my shoes. My cellphone is in my pocket, which means I had it in my hand when I left my bedroom. Before I was in my bedroom, I was in the kitchen heating a Hot Pocket. Before I did that, I came back from getting the mail. I had to use my keys to get into the apartment. That’s a plus. Definitely narrows down the search area.
Heading back into the kitchen, I scan the counters. Nope, not there. But the Hot Pocket sleeve is next to the trash can, not in it. The keys aren’t in the microwave. They would’ve exploded and caused a fire, and I would’ve noticed that.
Dammit. I open the freezer. Motherfucker. My Amanda Chase key chain with the glitter snow globe glares at me as if to say, “Again?”
I cringe and mutter, “Sorry.”
I don’t know why I apologize to the inanimate object, other than it would be rude not to. My punishment for my indiscretion? Cold metal in my pocket. Could be worse.
Glancing at the clock, I’m relieved—and a little shocked—to find this morning’s brainfart has only set me back two minutes. I’ll make it to my favorite client on time. Double checking Jenny from the Past hasn’t set Jenny from the Future up for failure, I give myself a satisfied nod and head out of the apartment.
First stop is Kingston the Klee Kai. He's always mistaken for a husky puppy, but he’s actually already five years old. He has the pointy ears and nose of a dog clearly descended from a wolf, but his tail curls into a little cinnamon roll. The happier he is, the tighter the curl gets. And when his mouth is open, he’s smiling.
I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I do, and it’s one-hundred-percent him.
His owner is a super-cute, little old grandma who left for a trip to Italy. She would’ve brought Kingston with her, but there was a quarantine issue, so she asked me to check on him. I don’t love leaving such a human-focused dog alone for long, but she assured me her family would be coming by to watch him as well.
On a normal day—when I’m here for just an afternoon walking session and not vacation care—the lady who lives here and I usually sit down for a few minutes, have some tea together, and chat before I take Kingston out. Her house smells like an old lady, roses, and garlic, and I feel more at home here than I do anywhere else.
Her family visits a lot, but I think I might be the only person she speaks to who isn’t related to her, or at least nine billion years old. Either way, she’s fucking amazing, and exactly who I want to be when I grow up.
Oh, and she tells me the best stories about her super-hot grandson, Nico. Ok, I don’t know for sure he’s hot. I’ve never seen any pictures. But in my mind, he is. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw like one of those Hemsworth brothers… but better, because he lives in my mind where he doesn’t fart, or forget to brush his teeth, or have any flaws.
Kingston greets me at the door, hopping on his hind legs and resting his front paws on me. “Down,” I say, even though I love it when he does this. But rules are rules. He bounces from the front door to the kitchen. He knows the drill.
I pick up his food dish and his water bowl, give them a quick rinse, and put them in the dishwasher. I’m not sure why Nonna, my client, insists on running everything through the dishwasher, but I’ve stopped questioning her.
Once Kingston is all harnessed up, I lock the door behind me, and we’re off to pick up his doggie friends. Five dogs and six bags of poop later, and over half my steps done for the day, we’re on our way back. My stomach drops when I see the road along our usual path home closed for a street festival. Do I bring the dogs through it, or walk two blocks to go around it? The fastest detour is to go down Carver Street. But that place freaks me out. After a millisecond of consideration, I choose the longer—and safer— route and drag the doggos that way. They don’t seem to care.
All in all, the afternoon is pleasant. I return the dogs one by one, leaving Kingston and me to head home. He’s dragging a little bit, sniffing and peeing on every leaf or blade of grass he can find. It’s like he’s leaving comments on the doggy internet.
There’s a few more cars on the street than when I left this morning. Some nice ones too—including a big-ass SUV—and one of the luxury cars is trying to be low key about it, no flashy aftermarket add-ons to be seen.
I punch in the code to get into Nonna’s house, but there’s a weird second beep, which means it was already unlocked. Might be a glitch, because I know I locked it. But several things strike me as odd. The house smells less like roses and more like sandalwood. There’s also a light jacket hanging on the hook that wasn’t there before. And the biggest oddity? There’s a man standing in the middle of the living room.
Last time I checked, he isn’t supposed to be here.
Other things I notice at the moment? He’s wearing a nice suit, and while it might have been off the rack, it’s been tailored to fit him. His dark hair is slicked back, and he has deep brown eyes—almost black, but not quite ready to make the commitment into a straight up mythical creature. He’s also upset, his emotions clear on his classically handsome face and fluctuating between sadness, confusion, and rage.
Oh, and the most important detail—he’s pointing a gun at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls as he stares down the barrel at me.
I have zero sense of self preservation, which apparently means arguing with this man seems like the best option. “Me? You’re the one breaking into Nonna’s house.”
Kingston is pulling at his leash as he barks and bounces. It’s not his territorially deep growl, which sounds much bigger and scarier when you don’t see he’s like twenty pounds and constantly smiling. His tail is even still up in a cinnamon roll. So even though there’s a gun pointed at my head, he doesn’t see it as a threat.
The man with a gun blinks at me a few times. “Why the hell are you in my grandmother’s house?”
Kingston finally pulls out of my hands. He runs over to the man, jumps on him once, sniffs, backs up, and barks twice. The man grabs the leash, unhooking it with the hand not holding the gun in my direction, then tosses the leash onto the couch and narrows his eyes at me.
