And that’s it. I append my signature on a few documents, pay the adoption fee, and before I know it, Vanda is ready to go home with me.
On our way back, she sits quietly in the passenger seat, watching me with those beautiful patient eyes of hers. It’s almost like she’s unsure, still yet to decide whether to settle in or not.
“Do you know what your name means, Vanda?” I ask, flashing her a smile before returning my gaze to the road ahead.
It feels silly talking to a dog but in a giddy way. Vanda tilts her head, her eyes curious like she actually really comprehends my words.
“You’re named after one of the rarest, most beautiful orchids, Vanda. Because you’re special.”
Her tail taps twice against the seat, her face lighting up with something close to a smile. My chest swells with pride and something else…a sense of euphoria that I haven’t felt in a long time.
By the time we arrive home, Vanda seems more relaxed, happy even. She follows me everywhere for a while and then settles by the kitchen island while I prepare her food. When I’m done, I set the bowl in front of her and she starts to eat delicately, like she’s afraid she’ll be scolded for wanting too much. My heart aches at the sight but I can only hope she gets more comfortable with time.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, stroking her back. “All this is yours now. You’re safe here.”
Her ears flick, and she leans into the touch.
When we step out into the main shop, she stays glued to my leg—literally. She moves when I move, pauses when I pause, sits when I stop. Hypervigilant little shadow.
I don’t mind. Actually, it feels comforting.
Customers filter in throughout the morning—regulars mostly, the kind who already know my name and my tendency to ramble about the meanings behind flowers.
The first to notice Vanda is Mrs. Hill, who comes in every Tuesday for a fresh bouquet to “brighten her kitchen.”
“Oh!” she gasps, hand flying to her chest. “You got a dog?”
I smile. “Just adopted her today. Her name’s Vanda.”
Mrs. Hill crouches a little, hand extended, but Vanda darts behind my legs and hides, trembling.
“Oh, sweet girl,” Mrs. Hill whispers. “She’s shy.”
“Very,” I say, giving Vanda a reassuring pat. “Especially around new people.”
Kids, though? That’s another story.
A little boy who looks to be around six runs in later with his mom. He spots Vanda immediately, drops to his knees, and whispers, “Hi puppy.”
To my shock, Vanda inches forward, sniffs his hand, then lets him scratch her head. Her tail even moves. Not wagging, exactly but it was an improvement from his meeting with others, especially the men.
“You’re magic,” I whisper to the boy.
He beams and runs back to his mom.
The whole day goes like that.
Vanda shadows me, flinching at men, tolerating women, loving the children.
By closing time, I’m tired, but Vanda is curled under the counter like she’s decided this is her spot. Her home.
I’m counting the register when the shop door opens and the little bell above it gives a traitorous jingle.
I look up and just like that, my breath ceases.
Viktor Balshov fills the doorway like a shadow stretching across the floor. Tall, dangerous, handsome in the kind of restrained, dark way that feels like it should come with a warning label.
He steps inside without a word.
