Chapter Eight
Foster looked over at his sister in the front passenger seat, making crooning noises into the crate she refused to stow in the back.
“I know. My brother is a big meanie and won’t let you out until we get home.”
“Hey,” he said. “That was Dakota’s idea.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Maddie said. “I was explaining it to Starr.”
Foster sighed. How had he gotten himself into this situation?
Oh right. His kid sister was crying. Not the big, show-off tears she used to do when she didn’t get her way. These were real, genuine tears of sadness and pity.
Or her temper-tantrum tears had gotten much more sophisticated.
And then Dakota had mentioned trying to find a foster family for Starr so she could come out of her shell, and Foster asked what that meant because he was an oblivious idiot who’d walked right into their trap.
Then he’d mentioned that maybe fostering Starr wouldn’t be such a big deal because it was temporary, and Becky looked at him like he’d just peeled back his mask to reveal his secret superhero identity and Maddie jumped up and down and tackled him in a big hug, and then he was driving home with a can of wet kibble to last the night and a tiny dog that looked like an old mop.
He was a sucker.
It didn’t help that Starr looked at him with those sad black eyes of hers. And he would never, even under pain of death, admit that that was what really sold him.
Besides, it was just temporary.
“We can take her to the groomer Dylan’s mom goes to. They’re used to dealing with ornery dogs.”
“I don’t think Starr is ornery,” Foster said. And why, exactly, was he getting defensive about this temporary dog?
“I know, but they’ll be gentle with her. You’re gonna look so pretty when you’re all cleaned up,” Maddie said to the crate.
Starr let out a whimper. Foster tightened his grip on the wheel. That sad sound was stressing him out.
Fortunately, they were pulling into the parking garage under his building. As the three of them took the elevator up to his apartment, he mentally justified not clearing dog ownership—no, dog fostering—with Brock because Brock was out of the country and Starr’s stay with him was only temporary.
“Can I spend the night? Just to make sure she’s OK?”
Foster thought about being alone in his apartment with this quivering mop of nerves. “Yes. You can make sure she doesn’t . . . I don’t know, have a heart attack.”
“That’s not funny!”
“Well, it’s not like she’s going to tear the place up. How much damage can one little dog do?”
“And she has hardly any teeth. She’ll be so good.”
Because along with the fact that Starr wasn’t even dog-size, Dakota had passed on the vet’s report that she was in decent health, she was probably twelve years old, and most of her teeth had been removed. That was alarming, but Dakota reassured him that little dogs often had dental hygiene problems, and it was at least a good sign that the previous owner had paid attention to her health needs by removing rotting teeth that, if left alone, could cause much more damage.
Once they were inside, Maddie put the crate down in the middle of the living room and opened the gate.
“Aren’t you going to take her out?” he asked when Maddie started to walk away.
“No. It’s better if she gets acclimated and comes out when she feels comfortable.”
Foster leaned down and peeked inside the crate. Starr was smooshed toward the back, but she watched him with curious eyes.
“Fine. When did you become such a dog expert?”
Maddie ignored him and started opening the kitchen cabinets. “Where are your bowls? Never mind.” She pulled out two small, plastic food storage containers, filled one with water, and emptied the can of wet food into the other.
“Make yourself at home,” he muttered. He went in search of a clean set of sheets to make up the spare bed. “What do you want to do for dinner?” he called out. When she didn’t answer, he went back down the hallway in search of an answer.
“Shh,” Madison warned him as he entered the room. She was sitting on the corner of the couch. She’d turned the TV on low—that was fast—and was looking decidedly away from the crate.
“What’s going—”
“Shh!”
He shhed, and watched a little moppy head peek out of the crate. Starr sniffed the carpet, then put out one tentative paw.
“Oh my God I’m going to die!” Maddie whispered. “She’s so cute!”
Starr had two paws out, then three, then four. She looked around, taking in her new—temporary—home. And she barked.
“Yow.” Foster rubbed his ear where he was pretty sure his eardrum was rupturing.
And that was apparently all Starr had to do to get her nervousness out of her system, because then she was wiggling and smiling—she was definitely smiling—and hopping all around, investigating every corner of the apartment before ending up in a full body wiggle at Madison’s feet.
“Hi, baby, you want to come up?”
“No dogs on the sofa,” he said as his sister picked up Starr and cuddled her. Well, the dog wasn’t technically on the sofa. She was in Madison’s arms on the sofa. Starr licked Madison’s face and his sister giggled. “You have terrible breath,” she said. “And I love you for it.” Starr climbed out of her arms and onto the throw pillow at Madison’s elbow. She walked in a few tight circles, then curled up in a ball and let out a contented sigh.
Technically, she was on a pillow and not on the sofa. So it was fine.
Anyway, it was only temporary.
Madison stretched out so her head was sharing the pillow with Starr. Starr gave her a lazy lick on the nose, then went to sleep.