“This is your kingdom now,” I tell him. “Guard it well.”
He huffs, which I’m learning is Ruffy-speak forobviously.
My first customer of the day is Mrs. Jennings, who takes one look at Ruffy and pauses mid-step.
“Delilah, dear. That’s...quite a dog.”
“This is Ruffy. He’s friendly once he gets to know you.”
Ruffy glances at Mrs. Jennings with the polite disinterest of a cat, then looks away. She doesn’t exist to him. She’s not his person.
“He’s...large.”
“He’s a teddy bear. He just needs a minute.”
Mrs. Jennings gives Ruffy a wide berth on her way to the counter, but he doesn’t so much as lift his head. She relaxes by the time I hand her the bouquet. “Well. He is rather majestic, isn’t he?”
“He knows it, too.”
By midmorning, the pattern is clear. Ruffy doesn’t care about customers. He doesn’t greet them, doesn’t approach them, doesn’t acknowledge their existence unless they get between him and me. Then he’ll lift his head and watch—not threaten, just watch—until they move along. He’s a one-woman dog in a public-facing business, and he’s handling it by simply opting out of everyone who isn’t me.
I’m arranging tulips when the bell above the door chimes.
Ruffy’s head snaps up. His ears rotateforward.
I look up too, expecting another customer.
It’s Levi.
He’s carrying a baseball cap in his hands—the universal gesture of a man who knows he’s entering uncertain territory. His eyes find mine first, then drop to Ruffy, who has risen from his spot and is standing at full attention. Ears forward. Still. Seventy pounds of quiet assessment.
“Hey,” Levi says.
“Hey,” I say back.
My voice comes out normal, which is a miracle, because the rest of me is doing that thing again—the thing where every nerve ending wakes up and starts paying attention, like my body has its own memory of him that my brain hasn’t agreed to.
“You got a dog,” Levi observes.
“Yup.”
“He’s, uh...” Levi takes in Ruffy’s watchful stance, the unblinking eyes, the floof that somehow makes him look both cuddly and regal. “Big.”
“His name is Ruffy.”
“Ruffy.” Levi tries a friendly smile in Ruffy’s direction. “Hey, buddy.”
Ruffy stares at him with the focused intensity of a dog who is deciding things. Not hostile—just thorough. Like he’s reading Levi’s entire history throughscent and body language and whatever other frequencies dogs operate on that humans can’t access.
A small, petty part of me enjoys watching Levi Cole—three platinum albums, sold-out arenas—get evaluated by a seventy-pound rescue dog with trust issues.
“He doesn’t warm up to strangers,” I say. “He’s particular about people.”
“I’m getting that.” Levi stays by the door, hands in his pockets. “Does he...want me to leave?”
“He wants to figure you out first. Give him a second.”
Levi holds still while Ruffy considers him. After a long moment, Ruffy apparently reaches a verdict:not a threat, not interesting.He sits back down at my feet and looks away, which in Ruffy language is the highest compliment a stranger can earn. You may exist in my space. For now.
