“Someone dumped him on the Wynter Estate.”
“Poor guy,” Eli said, taking the dog’s big head in his hands and shaking him playfully. “You and Matt can be two abandoned bachelors together.”
“I don’t know whether I’m going to keep him.”
“What?” Oliver said, looking up from his laptop where he was sitting at my desk. “You have to keep him! You can pimp him out for fan points on the internet and maybe not lose the bake-off.”
“I don’t want to be in the bake-off,” I growled, trying to push my younger brother out of my chair. “I’m too busy.”
“You can’t just let Hensley and Brody win,” Eli scoffed. “After what they did? You have to wipe the floor with them.”
“I don’t let emotions get in the way of business.”
“But you will let them get in the way of baking,” Oliver countered. “You could have just helped.”
“People are liking the bad boy baker, though,” Eli said, peering over Oliver’s shoulder. “Look. There’s already a fan page. And your video is going viral. It’s on the front page of Reddit.”
“No. Call Owen,” I said to Oliver, “and see whether he can scrub that video off the internet.”
“Too late,” Eli replied, taking out his phone. “Now do something cute and loving with the dog. You kind of looked like a dick in that video. We need to show that you’re a caring CEO.”
The St. Bernard lumbered around me. His head came up almost to my chest. He raised up on his hind legs and licked my face.
“So slobbery.”
“This is good stuff,” Eli said.
“You can’t post that.” I tried to grab his phone, but he blocked me.
“Done,” he said. “Already up on all our company social media sites. I told everyone you rescued him along with a picture of that note. Who doesn’t like a guy who rescues a dog?”
“You’re going to keep him, right?” Oliver asked.
I looked down at the St. Bernard. He gave me a happy dog smile. I ruffled his floppy ears.
“Sure, he can stay.”
“There’s a stall selling Christmas outfits for dogs,” Oliver said. “You can see whether they have something in his size.”
“He is not wearing a Christmas outfit,” I said. “He’s a St. Bernard. They’re tough mountain dogs. They rescue people from avalanches.”
“I think Kringle just wants a snack,” Oliver said.
“His name is not Kringle,” I warned, looking around for the dog.
He was padding around the office and eyeing the snacks we left out for my employees at the break room table.
“Get away from that,” I ordered the dog.
The brown and white animal ignored me and opened his large mouth to inhale the bags of Christmas flavored popcorn or whatever the hell that was that my secretary had bought for the snacks.
“Kringle, come!” Oliver yelled.
The dog padded over, wagging his tail.
“He probably just knows commands,” I said to my brother, irritated. I was not going to have a dog with a Christmas name.
“Kang,” I said loudly, trying out strong-sounding names, “come.”
