“I can call him … ?”
Avery loses it. She’s bracing herself on the car doorjamb, howling with laughter. The dog reaches us and jumps, planting both paws on my shoulders and licking me from neck to chin while I wobble and brace myself—barely staying upright.
“Aww. He likes you,” Mom says.
“Hi, Daddy!” Mia shouts up at the dog.
“Don’t call him that,” I say.
The dog drops from my shoulders, wagging his tail and nuzzling at Mia.
“I love you, Daddy!” she squeals. The dog’s excitement ramps.
“Please, call him Henry,” I beg.
Mia ignores me.
I make eye contact with my sister. She’s literally wiping tears from her eyes.
“Whose dog is this?” I ask.
“Mine,” Mom says. “I got him when your father moved out. He was staying with a friend last week.” She addresses the dog. “Weren’t you, Daddy? Who’s your daddy?” She steps closer and ruffles the top of the dog’s head. “Henry Cavill, that’s who.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, making pleading eyes with my sister who has broken into a new wave of hysterics.
“You brought a dog home?” My question isn’t rhetorical. It’s more of a plea to heaven to assure me this is some sort of fever dream.
The dog licks my hand. Nope. I’m awake.
“What kind of dog is Daddy?” Mia asks.
I pause. No one but me seems to notice the complete and utter insanity of the words coming out of my daughter’s mouth.
“He’s a Komondoodle!” Mom says, enthusiastically. “But three-quarters Komondor. That’s why he looks like a walking mop.”
“He’s so cute!” Mia exclaims. “Can he sleep in my bed, Mommy?”
“He doesn’t shed,” my mom says proudly, as if she isn’t springing an entire eighty-pound dog on me.
“We’ll see,” I say.
And here I thought moving to a new town to become the first female firefighter in department history was going to be the biggest challenge of the year.
But now my home is being overrun by a giant living mop. And tomorrow I’ll face a bunch of squirrelly elementary school children with my sidekick, Mr. McGrumpypants.
Chapter 8
Hallie
I’m not grumpy. I’m selectively enthusiastic.
~ Unknown
Greyson’s driving the truck. We left the engine at the station since it’s just the two of us—a fire safety assembly for the third and fourth graders at J. Q. Adams Elementary.
He’s so stern right now, staring out the window like the statue of a man he is. No smile. No small talk.
I almost laugh at the thought of Greyson making small talk. A soft beat of a laugh pulses through me and he glances over. I school my face. He returns his eyes to the road.
