CHAPTER 6
Given the sheer fabulousness of Nick Dawes’s king-size bed, Jane was not surprised that she overslept. Even after she awoke, she lay there wiggling her toes and luxuriating in his quadruple-digit thread count.
It took the doorbell ringing to force her hand (her entire body, really), and the only reason she actually opened up after peering through the peephole was because the person on the flip side looked official, and she thought it might be something important about or for Mr. Dawes.
She did not realize there was a dog involved until she’d already opened the door to a woman with a severe bobbed hairdo, rocking a pantsuit and heavy gold jewelry. At the end of the leash there was a young, enthusiastic dog, and in the woman’s other hand was a medium-size leather suitcase. It did not escape Jane’s notice that the color of the woman’s pantsuit matched the puppy, thereby negating any puppy-hair issues. Jane had to wonder if the woman had other dogs to match a black-and-white spotted pantsuit and maybe a gray pantsuit with white hems.
“Oh!” Jane said, and leaned over to let the puppy smell her hand. Wagging like mad, the dog covered her palm with excited licks and slurps. “Hiiiii,” Jane cooed.
“I apologize for the short notice, but you know how these things are. I’m so glad someone was home. I’d have to give him to someone else, and I’d much rather Nick have him.” She paused. “You’re with Nick Dawes, yes?”
“Yes. I mean, well, I’m not with him, per se. But I’m . . .” Jane considered her attire and the hour and then decided not to try to explain. She bent over to pet the dog’s back and muttered, “Yeah, I’m with him.”
“Excellent.” The woman held out the leash and the suitcase.
Jane blinked at the twin offerings, forcing herself to process the weirdness with her usual sangfroid.
The woman arched a worried eyebrow. “Did you change your mind?”
The puppy thumped his tail on the floor. Nobody was going to look down at this little wheat-colored bundle of deliciousness and change her mind, but that wasn’t the point. Just to clarify, Jane asked, “You’re delivering this dog to Mr. Dawes?”
“Well, yes.”
“This dog is for Mr. Dawes,” Jane repeated, just to be sure she’d got that right.
The woman looked a little concerned. “He said he was ready whenever.”
“No, I mean, this is a beautiful dog. I’m sure he’ll love him. It’s just that Mr. Dawes isn’t here to receive him, which seems . . . you know . . . slightly . . . inappropriate?” Oh, my god. Mr. Dawes set up a puppy adoption and didn’t tell me. That’s so uncool. A dog—even an adorable dog—was a much different kind of responsibility than a few fish. And not to have his new owner show up to receive him? Not just uncool. Much worse.
The woman stared at Jane. “Well, he’s coming back soon, I expect.”
Jane didn’t think she ought to let on about that one way or another. “This is his house,” she nonanswered in a friendly tone.
“I think it will be fine.”
“Oh.” Really? That seems sudden. Doesn’t the dog need time to get used to the house or me? “Maybe you should stay a little longer.”
The woman clearly thought that was an unsavory suggestion. “What a lovely offer. But I do want to get away from the city as soon as possible. May I have your cell phone number in case I need to reach you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Jane provided her number, and the woman punched it in her phone. In a second, Jane’s phone dinged; the woman must have texted hers back.
There was an awkward silence. She’s really just going to leave this dog with me.
“I don’t think there’s any food,” Jane finally said.
The woman laughed. “In the suitcase.”
“Ah,” Jane said weakly.
Once the door closed and Jane stood in Mr. Dawes’s apartment holding the puppy leash limply in one hand, a swell of anger swept through her. If surveillance and mosquito larvae weren’t going to do it, puppy abandonment certainly was. I was wrong about him, Jane thought, fuming, as she brought the puppy inside and passed the fish tank and the splotchy section on the floor where the fish had expressed their unhappiness with the pH balance of the tank or the crisis in the Middle East or whatever the problem was. Nick Dawes is not adorable. Nick Dawes is just your typical self-involved rich jerk. Mr. Dawes probably wasn’t actually worried about his fish. That’s not why he’d hired her. He’d hired her because he was worried about how losing his fish would mess up the expensive wood flooring in his apartment.
The puppy found a good spot in front of the fireplace and plopped down. He placed his unbearably sweet face on top of his enormous fuzzy puppy paws and looked up at Jane. Half a day passed, with Jane alternately playing with the dog and then fuming about the dog situation overall. As it turned out, the dog didn’t seem to need as much acclimation as Jane would have expected, and his only expression of discomfort with his new surroundings was an unfortunate penchant for peeing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This would have been no big deal normally, and a small price to pay for such a large quantity of adorableness, except for the fact that Nick had not mentioned the puppy during any of their conversations.
God. Who the hell adopts the world’s cutest puppy and then isn’t there to receive it? He said nothing about a puppy. He’s gone and ordered a puppy for delivery to his door as if it was a case of paper towels and then assumed I’d take care of the whole situation, that I’d love this puppy as his proxy so he doesn’t have to get his suit dirty! Where’s his sense of responsibility? Who does that? What a jerk! And also, I really could’ve used a case of paper towels.
Jane spent the afternoon stewing about what to do, stewed while she dashed out to run a couple of errands, and was still stewing by the time dinner came around—and after she’d cleaned the floor several times. She decided there really was only one thing to do: show Nick Dawes that he couldn’t just walk around wearing his expensive privilege pants and not expect Jane to stand up for what was right.