Page 15 of Spiced!

“I see that. He’s cute.”

“Today.”

“Okay.”

“Like”—he shifted the puppy to a slightly different position against his chest—“four hours ago.”

“Let me guess,” I said, knowing it wasn’t a guess. “First dog?”

“First anything,” he said. “I have a succulent. She’s a very good succulent. I’m good with her.” He looked at the puppy. “This is different.”

“Your houseplant is female?”“Her name is Abbie. She’s very sweet. At least, I think she is.” He nodded seriously. “She doesn’t lick my face or pee on my shirt, though.”

“A puppy is quite different from a plant, even one as . . . sweet . . . as Abbie,” I said, smothering a chuckle. “And what are your names?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I’m Adrian. I haven’t named this little guy yet.”

“Nice to meet you, Adrian. I’m Dr. Davis, Brendan Davis.”

“Brendan,” he said, as though memorizing a foreign word. “I mean Doc. Sorry. I’m new to all this.”

I grinned at watching a hunky guy fumbling for words. That was usually my problem when confronted with a hottie.

“So, Adrian, what made you decide to come in? It’s good to get new dogs checked out, but Marcus said you were concerned about something.”

“He sneezed,” the man said. “Like, a lot. On the way over. I kind of panicked. Is that—is sneezing bad? He’s so little, and his sneeze was so big.”

“Can I take a look at him?”

“Yes. Please. That’s why—yes.” He stepped forward and held the puppy out toward me, then apparently reconsidered whether he was ready to let go and pulled him slightly back, then held him out again. “Sorry. Here.”

The puppy looked up at me with the expression all puppies had at this age, which was one of complete trust combined with zero understanding. He immediately attempted to eat my stethoscope.

“He does that,” Adrian said.

“Most puppies do,” I replied.

“I’ve had him four hours, and I know that already,” said a man who had four hours of extremely concentrated experience and wanted credit for it.

I set the puppy on the exam table and began my assessment. Eight weeks, healthy weight, good coat, clear eyes. Adrian stood on the other side of the table and watched with focused intensity.

“Any ideas for a name?” I asked.

A brief pause.

“Mofongo,” the man said. “I’m not sure yet, but that’s on the list.”

I looked up, unable to hide my confusion.

“It’s a Puerto Rican dish,” he said, sounding like someone who had already made this decision and was not reconsidering it. “Green plantains, fried and mashed up with garlic and chicharrón. My abuela makes it. It’s—” He stopped. “He just looked like a Mofongo when I saw him.”

I looked at the puppy.

The puppy looked back at me and sneezed directly into my face.

“That’s him,” the man said. “That’s the sneeze. Is that bad?”

I straightened and grabbed a paper towel. “He’s completely fine. He’s adjusting to a new environment. It’s all new smells and a little dust from wherever you picked him up. Puppies sneeze.”