I’ve never been more grateful to see him go because it’s just too hard to work next to the man I was falling madly in love with.
45
THE SPARE-PARTS MUTT
CORBIN
At least the dog isn’t fining me for feeding him after I drink my morning coffee.
Taco, a spare-parts mutt—since he looks like he was put together from a Lab, a Collie, and somehow, a Chihuahua—waits at the kitchen entrance for a second walk while I down my second cup and place bakery orders on my tablet.
Least I can do—try to help a little more.
The whole time Taco’s wagging his tail and staring at me, and it almost looks like he’s smiling.
Trick of the light, probably. Sunlight filters through the kitchen window.
“Almost ready, buddy,” I tell the dog.
Charlotte and I picked him up last night, since his regular foster had an overnight in Darling Springs, an hour away. He’ll be going back to her this afternoon before I take off for a quick road trip.
I finish the order, double-checking it. No gluten-full products that should be gluten-free and vice versa. Next, I pay the delivery service, the specialty chocolate supplier, and the distributor for flour and sugar, and then I check on the merch inventory. We’re a little low on T-shirts, so I place an order for more.
There. I’ve done something useful for Mabel. It’s all I can do. I send her a message, letting her know. I can’t fix my own damn heart, but I can fix the bakery order.
I set down the tablet, then put the mug—it saysShe’s the Boss, Just Ask My Daughter—in the sink.
I pat the pup’s head. “You’re a patient boy.”
He happy-whimpers, then follows me as I head to the mudroom to grab a dog bag and the leash. When I grab it, he spins in a circle, bopping my thigh with his soft head.
I kneel and pet him some more. He rubs his head against me, then nudges me. He must need to go. “All right, that’s something I won’t fuck up,” I say, then put the leash on him.
Once we’re outside, I walk down the sidewalk, but he doesn’t do his business. He turns to me, tilts his head, then nudges my thigh again.
I bend down and pet him a second time. He bumps his head against my leg a third time.
“What do you want, Taco?” I ask curiously, then pet him some more.
He keeps rubbing his head against me, so I wrap my arms around him. He lets out a sigh, and it sounds happy. I pat him some more, and a few seconds later he’s finally ready for a walk.
He just wanted a hug. I get it.
“That all you wanted?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but the answer seems to come in his gait—fast and proud. He’s focused on his walk now, sniffing the occasional bush or tree, but mostly full-speed ahead. He’s a cutie, with white and brown markings—Charlotte did a color show and tell—including spectacular ears. Charlotte adores him, and Mabel would love him too. A pang shoots through my chest at the thought of how much she’d have loved him. How she’d have shown it. She would have kissed his head, pet his belly, and thrown him a frisbee.
My heart craters. Like it’s been punched by the annoyingly fantastic image my dickhead brain just supplied of Mabel playing with the dog. Something she won’t get to do. Because she’s not here hanging out with foster dogs with me. Spending the night with me. Waking up next to me so I can make her breakfast, shower with her, go to work with her—together.
Because I ended things. I had to, of course. I was too much. I was messing up her dreams. No other choice but to cool things off.
Hell, it already seems like Afternoon Delight is running smoother since we took a step back two days ago.
Soon, we near Annabelle’s house, and my attention snags on a fluffy orange cat sniffing grass in the front yard.
“Seven, did you sneak out again?” I ask, but my gaze lands on a harness on the big boy. It’s attached to a long leash, and what do you know—Annabelle’s holding it on the porch, letting the cat roam while keeping him safe.
When Taco spots him, he jerks his head toward the cat, then ignores him.
