TheFor Leasesign is still in the window.
April stops too, staring at the space with an expression I’ve seen a hundred times. Longing mixed with determination mixed with fear.
“The Barkery?” I saysoftly.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about your latest pupcakes, any new ideas you have, anything.”
She glances at me, surprised. “I’ve told you about it before at length, in detail.”
“Tell me more. I like to hear about it.”
So she does. She talks about the latest blueberry oat recipe she’s been testing for the dog bakery that will be on one side and some idea for the training center on the other, about the color scheme and the fixtures and the specific brands of mixing bowls she wants. Her face lights up with each word.
April is the most passionate, driven, and nurturing person I know. She’s someone who sees potential in imperfect things—whether that’s a scared rescue dog or a forgetful hockey player who can’t remember where he put his keys.
I say, “Since you won’t let me bankroll the project, the campaign payment could cover the startup costs.”
“Maybe. If everything goes well.”
“It will go well.”
I turn to face her fully, and the dogs arrange themselves in a patient semicircle like they know something important is happening.
“April, you’re amazing with animals. You’re smart and organized and you have a business plan that’s so detailed it puts Badaszek’s playbook to shame. If anyone can make The Barkery work, it’s you.”
She looks down, and I’m pretty sure she’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. “Thanks, Clark.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do. That’s why ...” She trails off.
“Why what?”
“Why I’m scared. What if I’m scared to try this fake dating thing? What if this messes everything up? What if we can’t go back to being friends? And I lose you and my Barkery dream?”
The question I’ve been avoiding occupies the space between us.
“It won’t, but then we follow rule seven,” I say quietly, smoothing a strand of her hair by her shoulder. “No matter what happens, we find our way back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She takes a deep breath. “In that case, we should sign the contracts before I lose my nerve.”
We walk back to my loft, and it feels simultaneously like our last moment as just friends and the beginning of something I’m afraid to name.
The dogs are tired now, their excitement from earlier replaced with the contented exhaustion of a good walk. They lap up water and settle in for the night.
I open the digital contracts Whitaker sent and print them out.
“Last chance to back out,” I say, pen in hand.
“Are you backing out?”
“Not a chance.”
