The steward quickly measured Pampi’s height and recorded her weight. “All done. You’re cleared to proceed.”
“Perfect,” Chris said, still smiling like Pampi had personally approved of him.
I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but I was impressed. And maybe a little thrown off. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
I stepped back to the side once the steward waved us on, trying to pretend I wasn’t bothered by how easily Pampi had melted into Chris’s touch. But I was bothered. A lot.
This was the same dog who once snapped at a delivery driver simply for stepping too close to her.
And now she was making heart eyes at Chris?
It felt weird. Almost like a betrayal, honestly. Pampi wasmydog.Mybaby.
I crossed my arms. Maybe I was being dramatic. Probably. Still didn’t change the fact that my stomach twisted every time I heard Pampi chirp at him.
Chris stayed behind to finish the paperwork and handle whatever chaos Pampi had caused.
I watched him for a moment, seeing the easy way he talked to the stewards and how he could make them laugh even while managing a fussing Papillon, then forced myself to look away.
I was not thinking about him. I wasnotfeeling anything. Definitely not. I was just… evaluating him. Objectively. For pack reasons.
I was mid-brood when someone approached me from the left.
“Excuse me,” a man said, holding a small pouch of treats. “Is your dog alright? She seemed pretty stressed back there.”
I looked up. A vaguely familiar face. I’d seen him earlier, staring a little too long when Pampi shrieked on the scale. Late thirties, maybe. Short brown hair, sharp chin, eager smile that felt one watt too bright.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s just dramatic.”
He laughed like I’d told the funniest joke in the world. It was not. “I get it. Some of the little breeds? Total divas.”
He held out the pouch. “Here. I make my own treats. All-natural. Dogs go crazy for these.”
I glanced at the bag but didn’t take it. “Thanks. But she’s picky.”
He lifted it insistently. “Oh, I promise she’ll love these. Everyone here uses them. My dog refuses anything else.”
I resisted the urge to step back and to remain polite instead.
“I’m Marion,” he added abruptly. “Been competing for years. If you ever need anything—grooming contacts, handler strategies, where to buy the good leashes—I’m your guy.”
He kept the treats held out, waiting. I didn’t want to take them, but refusing him again felt like it’d start a whole conversation I didn’t have the energy for.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the pouch.
He brightened instantly. “She’ll love them. Good luck out there.” Then he finally left.
I exhaled a long, slow breath.
A moment later, Chris crossed the floor toward me, Pampi nestled against his chest like she owned him. Her tail wagged the second she saw me, but she didn’t try to leap out of his arms.
Traitor.
Chris stopped in front of me. “Who was that?”
“Just another handler.” I nodded toward the retreating figure. “He offered treats for Pampi.”
Chris frowned immediately. “You took them?”
