“I don’t know, Randall,” I say carefully. “Like I’ve told you before, it’s not my house that I’m-”
“I’ll pay you three hundred a day,” he cuts in.
Nowthatgives me pause. “Per day?For how many days?”
“I’m gone a week.”
I do mental math and feel a little faint. “That’s over two thousand dollars!” I cry.
He gives a curt nod. “So? You’ll watch her?”
I debate whether two thousand dollars is worth enduring more of Landon’s wrath and almost immediately conclude that yes, it istwo thousandpercent worth it. “Alright, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll watch the little fluffball. When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. You can pick her up tonight. Six sharp.”
“Alright,” I say with a shrug. “I can stop by after work, I guess.”
He frowns at me. “Work? Where do you work?”
“Oh. I’m a server at The Golden Palm Country Club. Heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” His nose wrinkles. “I’m a member, unfortunately.”
“You are?” I ask, surprised. “I’ve never seen you there.”
“Yeah, well.” He shifts, uncomfortable. “I only went for my wife. My late wife.”
My heart squeezes, and I reach forward to lightly touch his arm. “Oh, Randall. I’m so sorry.”
He brushes me off, almost annoyed at the show of affection. “It’s fine. No point in going now. That place makes me damn miserable, but she loved it.” For a moment, he gets this peaceful, faraway look on his face, like he’s recalling a nice memory. It vanishes quickly, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking him what he was thinking about. “Enough about that. Do you know anything about televisions? Mine won’t turn on for some stupid reason.”
And that’s how, one working TV and half a day later, I find myself dressed in my country club uniform, juggling a dog leash, bed, and a duffle bag full of toys, bowls, and kibble as I struggle to unlock the front door to Landon Blair’s home.
“You have more baggage than I do, Snowball,” I grunt as the lock turns. I kick open the door with my foot and shoulder my way inside, somehow managing not to drop anything. “I think your owner spoils you, though he’ll never admit it.”
Snowball just stares up at me obliviously, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.
As soon as the front door shuts, I drop the bed and carry the bags of dog stuff to the kitchen. Snowball roams, the leash dragging on the floor behind her, her little white tail wagging furiously as she sniffs all the new and exciting smells.
“Please, Snowball,” I plead. “Whatever you do, don’t mark your territory on the ten-thousand-dollar couch.”
She doesn’t respond, obviously. Just keeps sniffing.
I position her bowls in the corner of the kitchen, measure out her food per Randall’s instructions, and then I hurry upstairs to set up her bed in my room, out of sight of Landon. I’m at the top of the stairs, about to head back down, when I hear him.
“Violet,” comes an extremely pissed off voice thatdefinitelydoesn’t belong to Snowball. “Why thefuckis there a dog in the living room?”
Well, shit.
Squaring my shoulders, I head back downstairs, securing an aloof,this-is-so-not-a-big-dealsmile on my face. “Oh, I’m dog sitting. Meet Snowball. Snowball, meet Landon.”
Landon glares at me. “Dog sitting? You didn’t think you should run this by me first?”
Itsk. “Landon, don’t tell me you’re a cat person. On top of everything else?”
“I’m not acatperson,” he says, even more disgusted by that idea. “I’m anti-pet.”
He stares at Snowball. Snowball stares back.
