“Come on, you mangy mutt.” My nose wrinkled at the stench as I dragged the mud-covered furball deeper into the alley. I knew Rory passed it on her walk home from the yoga studio where she taught classes—the third of her three jobs—so it was the perfect location to lay my trap.
I jolted when the dog licked my hand, and I gave him the stink eye. “Swear to God, if you have fleas . . .”
My brother and cousin would be laughing their asses off if they could see me now. They knew I fuckinghateddogs. Which was why I’d shot my wife down flat when she asked for one early in our marriage.
Checking my watch, I noted the time. Rory was a creature of routine—at least since leaving Chicago—and in all the time I’d been observing her movements, she left her Wednesday night hot yoga class at precisely 4:15 PM, so she should be walking down Main Street toward where I hid right . . . about . . . now.
An evil grin curved on my face a split second before I schooled my features, calling out, “I need help back here! Anyone, please!”
Footsteps sounded on concrete as my wife ran down the alley.
Under my breath, I hissed at the dog, “Play dead.”
The brainless beast had the good sense to listen, flopping onto its back and opening its mouth enough to have its tongue lolling out.
“John?” Rory skittered to a stop when she saw me. “What’s going on?”
Ignoring the suspicion in her tone, I crouched down near the stray dog I’d snatched from a junkyard outside of town. “Do you know anything about dogs? I think he’s hurt.”
“Oh, no.” Her voice softened as she knelt beside me. “Poor thing. There’s an animal shelter a few blocks down the street. Maybe they could take him in?”
“Good idea. I’m still pretty new in town. Do you think you could walk me there?”
Rory nodded. “Yes, of course.”
I hefted my accomplice into my arms, fighting against a gag when he panted right in my face. What did this thing eat to make its breath smell so bad? Garbage?
“This way.” Rory directed me out of the alley toward the shelter.
When we got there and pushed inside, the man behind the reception desk plugged his nose as I moved closer with the disgustingly dirty canine. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I found this pup collapsed a few blocks away.” I grunted; the strain from carrying the heavy mongrel was enough to throw my back out. “Do you think you could see if he’s microchipped? And if not, would you be able to take him in, find him a new home?”
The shelter employee pressed his lips together. “Let me get the scanner.”
“Thank you!” Rory called to his back as I dropped to my knees, easing the dog onto the linoleum floor. Beside me, she stroked down the length of its crusty, matted fur. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy. They’re gonna fix you right up.”
A quick scan between the shoulder blades confirmed what I already knew: this mutt wasn’t microchipped and had no previous owner.
Standing from his crouched position, the man who’d introduced himself as Dean said, “Unfortunately, we don’t have the room to take in another animal.”
Which was exactly what I’d paid him to say.
Balking at that news, I gestured to the dog. “What are we supposed to do with him then?”
Dean shrugged. “You could always take him home yourself.”
Rory chimed in, her voice sugary-sweet. “Is there really nothing you can do?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. My hands are tied. We only have so many crates in the back.”
The woman at my side nodded in understanding, sighing as she stared longingly at the dog. “I’ve always wanted one, but I work so much. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him alone all day.”
Mentally, I rubbed my hands together. This was almost too easy.
“If you’re serious about potentially adopting him, I work from home. Maybe I could keep him during the day while you’re at work?” I offered.
She blinked up at me with those big blue eyes. “You would do that?”
