“I didn’t want to,” I said. “He was… pushy.”
Chris shifted Pampi to one arm and studied my face. I must’ve looked more bothered than I thought, because his voice lowered a little as he asked, “Why? Is that weird? Him giving treats?”
“Not weird,” I said slowly, “but Peter mentioned the dogs getting sick. I’d rather be careful.”
I lifted the pouch. “I’ll send this back to Pecan Pines. Let them check if there’s anything off.”
Chris nodded. “Yeah. We’ll keep an eye on him. Even Pampi doesn’t like him.”
I followed their gaze. Pampi had turned in Chris’s arms, staring at Marion with narrowed eyes, her tiny Papillon stink-eye at full power.
“To be fair, she doesn’t like anyone,” I muttered.
Chris smiled. “She likes me.”
I pretended I didn’t hear that. For now, I ruffled Pampi’s head. “Alright, princess. Everyone’s suspicious until proven otherwise.”
She chirped in agreement, still tucked comfortably in Chris’s arms.
4
CHRIS
The competition hall was already buzzing by the time we arrived.
Handlers streamed through the broad glass doors in tight clusters, leashes looped around their wrists, dogs pacing at their sides with that restless mix of focus and excitement.
Temporary ring barriers carved the massive ballroom into orderly lanes, and vendor booths lined the walls beneath hanging banners and bright overhead lights.
Judges’ tables were being set up at the far end of the room, volunteers darted between stations with clipboards and radios. The air was thick with layered scents like disinfectant, rubber matting, treats, nervous sweat and excitement.
And beneath it all, something sharper. Tension.
“Stay close,” Jaime murmured beside me, his voice low and careful. “Too many variables here.”
I nodded. “Got it… Peter.”
Saying my fake husband’s name still felt strange on my tongue.
Jaime didn’t look at me, but I felt the faintest pause in his stride. A tell, maybe. Or maybe I was imagining it. Pampi trotted between us with light, precise steps, plumed tail held high.
Papillons were known for their elegance and intelligence, but Pampi carried herself like a tiny empress.
Apparently, she normally didn’t tolerate anyone except Jaime, snapping or retreating if a stranger got too close. But somehow, she’d taken a liking to me.
She brushed against my leg as we walked, checking in like I was part of her territory now.
Jaime didn’t seem to like it. His gaze flicked to the dog, then to me, faint surprise ghosting across his usually controlled expression. Or maybe Jaime didn’t mind, I decided.
We’d already cleared registration. Next came health verification.
A volunteer in a bright blue vest scanned our paperwork and motioned us forward with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Handlers and dogs to the inspection stations, please,” she said.
We joined the slow-moving line inside a cordoned-off section of the ballroom, where portable exam tables had been set up beneath rows of bright overhead lights.
The polished hotel floor echoed with claws and footsteps, the sharp taps of nails mixing with low voices and the soft whine of nervous dogs.
