I know what he looks like in the bed, rumpled and sleepy and happy. In this moment, looking at his Instagram the other night feels like an even bigger invasion of his privacy. The space is too intimate, and now that I know Call Me Charlie is single, the implication of where I am is too much.
I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, skirting around the bed. “Why don’t we start in the living room?”
Charlie is holding the rainbow fabric crumpled in his fist, and his eyes are somewhere below my chest. He swallows as he nods, and I don’t know if I’m trying to be a businessman or a gentleman, but either way I escape before I get myself into trouble.
I wasn’t expecting the Charlie Effect to hit me all over again. He’s nice enough to look at. Taller than he first appears, with long limbs he seems comfortable in. But there’s more to him than that. When I told him to let go of Athena, he did it immediately. He didn’t question, he didn’t make jokes. If he can take that kind of obedience into the bedroom—when we actually mean to both be there—he’ll be nearly impossible to resist.
I wait for him in the living room. The sofa is missing one of its cushions, and I decide not to ask about it because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
Just as I’m starting to wonder if Charlie will follow, a shout comes from the bedroom, followed by the thunder of paws on the floor as Athena barrels up the hall. She darts into the room, parkouring over the furniture. A lamp on one of the side tables teeters dangerously. I lunge for it...and wind up colliding as Charlie runs into the room and leaps for the lamp with a reflexive urgency that says this isn’t the first time he’s done it.
But I’ve never been in the way before.
It could be some big Hollywood moment, except his forehead meets my mouth, banging against my front teeth. I grunt, and he stumbles back, hand to his forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But he grimaces and lifts his palm away, staring at it like he’s expecting blood.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I say.
“No, it’s okay. I should just stop putting a lamp on that table. She’s already broken two.”
I glance around. Nothing about this room is set up for a puppy. The furniture is leather, the carpet is white. A few toys are stored in a basket.
“Do you have a crate for her?”
“No, I don’t like crates.”
Oh, Jesus. A dog like this, if he didn’t crate train her, no wonder he’s burning through lamps.
“What don’t you like about them?”
His expression turns sad. “It’s cruel.”
I laugh. “It’s not.”
“I can’t just lock her up for my own convenience. Who would do that?”
“Dogs like structure and boundaries. Crating her when you leave or even if you need some peace around the house—”
“I’m not doing that.”
Oh boy. So much for unquestioning obedience.
“It’s not cruel. And it protects both your home and the dog. What if she electrocuted herself chewing on a cord or cut a paw on a broken lightbulb?”
He flushes. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. Strictly speaking, touching clients is frowned upon, unless I’m demonstrating something with the dog, but he looks like he needs the comfort.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find something that works for you.”
We get started, working on basic obedience around the house. Athena masterssitandcomepretty quickly, aided by a bag of sweet potato treats that manages to capture her attention span for at least a few minutes. She really is a great dog.
The owner...well, he’s trying hard.
“You’re still talking too much,” I say.
