CHAPTER NINE
Chris
This is going to go either spectacularly bad or spectacularly well, I thought, staring at the huge, brightly painted building that housed Rescue Granted through my windshield. It’d been three days since the gala, and I’d contemplated not coming in to volunteer at all, but I valued my career too much to risk getting benched. So here I was.
Dead leaves littered the asphalt and made rustling and crunching noises as I crossed the parking lot to the staff entrance. The temperature had officially dropped into the upper thirties, but at least the sky was cloudless and sunny.
“You’re either dumber than I thought or braver,” Penny said when I strolled into the office. She was typing at a computer, a stack of folders on the desk and a mug of what looked like tea beside her.
Spectacularly bad it is.
“Hazel’s still pissed then,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. I blew hot breaths into my hands and eyed the steaming pot of coffee on the table beside Hazel’s desk. I was tempted to steal a cup; Hazel was a religious nut when it came to her coffee—it was the only frivolous expense I’d seen in the entire shelter. No instant sludge for her. Only whole roasted beans she ground fresh every morning. She’d probably murder me for so much as looking at it.
“Do dragons spit fire?” Penny asked, glancing up from her screen and staring at me as though I was about to dig my own grave. “I hope you brought your flame-resistant suit.”
I scratched my jaw and chuckled. “Good thing I’m on bath duty today. The soapy water will protect me.”
“Now there’s an idea . . .” Penny eyed me in a way I wasn’t sure I liked. “You. Soapy and wet and holding a puppy. You could be Mr. December.” Her lips, which she’d painted a lurid crimson, curled up in a cruel smile. “A Dogs with Douches calendar might bring in so much money that Hazel would forgive you.”
“Title needs work,” I said, even as the idea took root in my brain.
Penny ignored me, writing something on a form and filing it in one of the folders. “Hazel’s already in grooming. She was convinced you weren’t going to show.”
Once again, I was reminded that people expected the worst from me. At least this was one promise I hadn’t delivered on. “Yeah, well, here I am. Ready to do the gross work per usual.”
“You might want to cut the sulky attitude. Hazel doesn’t like it when the pups whine—I can only imagine what she’ll think of the surly personality you’re sporting today,” she said, squinting at a piece of paper before returning to the computer.
“Always happy to provide a challenge.”
“Your funeral, Lalonde.”
I tempered my frustration as I walked down the main hallway to grooming. I’d faced harsher critics than Hazel, who I was certain was 99 percent bark and only 1 percent bite.
I peeked into the grooming room through the small window in the door and smothered a groan that under better circumstances might have been a laugh. Hazel stood at one of the raised tubs, scrubbing down Toffee, the Scottish terrier missing the majority of his hair and part of his left ear. He stared up at Hazel with huge brown eyes, shaking and whimpering tiny, plaintive pleas for mercy, which Hazel disregarded.
If that adorable dog couldn’t release the tension from her shoulders or calm the jerky, impatient way Hazel handled the bottle of shampoo that threatened to slip from her fingers, then I was definitely screwed. Straightening my spine, I knocked and stepped into the room.
Hazel peered at me over her shoulder, shock glinting in her eyes. “Wonders never cease. You’re late. Again.”
“I’m so flattered you noticed. Again,” I said, flashing her my fakest smile. I took a rubber apron from a pile, slipped the neck strap over my head, and tied the strings behind my waist. “Need some help?”
“I’m well acquainted with what you consider helpful, so thanks, but no thanks.” She switched on the coil hose and doused Toffee with enough water to drown out the little guy’s protests.
“Stop being a stubborn mule and tell me what to do,” I said, watching as she made every effort to pretend I didn’t exist. But the way a flush crawled up the back of her neck, only partially hidden by her ponytail, told me she was all too aware of me. Still, witnessing her struggle with it, even as she spit fire at my feet, was sexy as hell, which only led to thoughts of how I might turn that fury to passion.
“Fine. Snowcone has fleas,” she said over the loud rush of the water, nodding to the Maltipoo sleeping in one of the crates fastened to the wall. “When you’re done bathing her, you can bring her over to the haircutting area.”
Penny had commented that Hazel believed I’d bail on my duties, but based on the smirk Hazel gave me, I was now sure she’d not only known I would be here, but she’d also purposely saved the insect-ridden Maltipoo for me as payback.
Grabbing the basket off a shelf labeled SPECIAL CARE, I pulled on a pair of gloves, gently removed Snowcone from her crate, and placed her in the large stainless steel sink sequestered on the far side of the room meant for the health concern cases. What little remained of her white curly fur was covered in tiny black flecks, like someone had dumped a container of pepper on her. There were so many bloodsucking pests on Snowcone that her skin actually appeared as if it were crawling. And the smell—oh god, the smell—was so putrid I forced myself not to gag.
“Do you remember the steps on the checklist for this type of situation, or should I refresh your memory?” Hazel asked from where she continued washing Toffee.
“I’m not an idiot,” I grumbled. I was a fuckup, that was obvious, but I wasn’t incompetent or incapable of following directions like everyone seemed to believe.
I wet Snowcone’s coat and squirted on the medicated shampoo, holding my breath until I’d worked up a lather. I gently moved my fingers along her skin as I broke up the flea dirt, pretending the insects weren’t jumping onto my gloves and arms. Snowcone clawed at the sink’s edge in a futile attempt at escape, her cries growing unbearable.
“It’s okay, Snowcone. I’m almost done,” I murmured, my heart breaking at the tortured look in her big round eyes. Ugh, how did Hazel handle this sort of agonizing guilt every day?
Hazel shut off the hose and wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. “You know, Lalonde, I’m surprised you showed up today.”
“Well, if I didn’t, my boss would tattle to my other boss,” I said, irritation surging through me again.
“There you go again with the fifth-grade antics.” She unfolded a towel and wrapped a shivering and panting Toffee in the warm, soft fabric, rubbing the water out of what little hair he had. His tongue lolled out to one side and his chest heaved, but Toffee’s tail was now wagging at rapid speed. I realized dogs despised baths as much as I despised burpees.
“Am I wrong?” I asked.
Hazel sighed. “I’m not the calculating, vindictive person you think I am.”
“So let me get this straight, I’m supposed to extend you the benefit of the doubt, but you can hold tight to your split-second decision about who I am? That seems fair,” I said, turning on the water and rinsing out the medicated shampoo, careful not to let my annoyance at Hazel transfer to my treatment of Snowcone.
“Actions speak for themselves, Chris. At the first opportunity to take the easy way out, you jumped at it, regardless of what it cost me.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have stepped out of line if you hadn’t given me a shove,” I said, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.
“If you think answering my uncle’s questions honestly constitutes a push in Andrea Williams’s direction and callously kissing me the way you did, then you’re every bit the arrogant, hot-tempered, brainless athlete you pretend to be.” She looked me up and down, shaking her head with a dismissive expression. “A shame, as I’d thought there might be something real under the façade and bravado.”
My aggravation transformed into indignation. I’d expected more—better—from Hazel, but this is what I got? “So one misstep and that’s it? You write me off as a lost cause?”
At my words, she momentarily froze, as if I’d hit a sore spot, and I wondered if this sort of behavior was a pattern of hers. If she so easily pushed people away—was so inflexible in every aspect of her life—because it was easier than opening herself up and making herself vulnerable to potential heartbreak.
“I tried, Chris. But when people show me who they are, I tend to believe them. It’s less hurtful in the long run than hoping they might change.” Cradling Toffee, Hazel crossed the room and placed him in a vacant crate, the towel still snug around him.
I spun to face her and leaned against the sink, crossing my arms over my chest. Snowcone would have to wait. “Tried? At the rate you give up, it’s a miracle you run a successful rescue.”
She shook her head, as if I was an even bigger disappointment than she’d originally suspected. “If that’s how you feel, then I’ll make this simple for you and let you off the hook.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Hazel shrugged. “Consider your volunteer commitment at Rescue Granted completed. You can leave now, and from this point forward, I’ll tell my uncle you arrive on time and finish the work without protest.”
“So you’ll lie?”
She shrugged again, as though I wasn’t worth a response.
“I’ve done a lot of stuff I’m not proud of, made plenty of mistakes I’m still fixing, but I own every single one of them, because whatever else I am, I’m a man who keeps his word and fulfills his responsibilities. So thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather shovel dog shit.”
Hazel laughed, but it lacked sincerity. “If you think dog shit is the worst job I can give you . . .”
“I’m not one to back down from a challenge, Hazel.”
“Yeah, I can see how your ego would demand you perform whatever demoralizing task I can conjure up—and trust me, it’s tempting.”
I pushed off the sink, and in three long strides, I was in her space, pinning her with my gaze. “So bring it.”
“You don’t need me to challenge you, you need to challenge yourself,” she said, standing her ground, her chest rising and falling with her sudden unsteady breathing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, moving so close I could see the thin band of blue that circled the green of her eyes.
Hazel stepped back, almost cautiously, and said, “Just that in all the years I’ve been working with dogs, one thing has become abundantly clear: The ones that bark the loudest are never the ones that lead. They’re all bluster, all ego, too concerned with proving the size of their balls to notice that the pack doesn’t respect them. Sound familiar?”
Yeah, it sounded familiar all right. More than I wanted to admit.
“Don’t allow that defensive tackle to trip you up like that again. Keep your attention on the end zone,” I shouted to Ben from inside the huddle. My heart raced and blood pounded in my ears, matching the roar coming from the stands. “We only need six yards for a first down, but if you see a bigger opening, take it. Hell, throw the ball long to Olson, and I’ll act as a decoy. It’s the last thing the Texans will expect.”
Offensive Coordinator Ashley would no doubt skin me alive for altering the original play on the fly, but he wasn’t reading Ben correctly or calling formations suited to his quarterback style. We were on third down on our own thirty-six-yard line with forty-eight seconds remaining in the second quarter, and the offense needed to change things up if we had a prayer of mending our 2–7 record. One solid drive and Ben would discover his footing, secure us a touchdown to tie the game 14–14, and provide the Blizzards momentum heading into halftime. I’d deal with the consequences of my insubordination later.
“That seems like a risky move we can’t afford,” Austin said, chest heaving. Dirt and green streaks from the natural turf covered his silver Lycra pants and rips from one too many tackles marred the mesh fabric of his jersey.
“We need a score, and the plan I suggested will accomplish that,” I said, sweat dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision. Fuck it was hot out.
No matter how many times I’d traveled to Houston, I somehow always managed to forget how the term “sweater weather” didn’t seem to exist in this city, the temperature rarely dropping below sweltering until January. The retractable roof at NRG Stadium was open, the blinding field lights obscuring the stars in the night sky.
“I agree with Chris,” Tony said, flexing his fingers in and out of fists. Scabs dotted his knuckles, bruises stretching and contracting beneath the skin. “What do you think, Dustin?”
Olson nodded, his expression as serious as it was determined. “I’ve got it handled. How about it, Ben?”
Ben fixed his gaze on mine, and whatever he saw reflected there must have convinced him to trust my instincts, because he yelled, “Rumble, cash carry, K-87,” confirming my play.
Ben clapped, and the huddle scattered, each of us running to our respective positions. I lined up beside the left tackle, locking my stance, while Ben found his spot behind the center to set up for the snap.
All around us, the seventy-thousand-strong Texans crowd dressed in deep-steel-blue-and-battle-red merchandise and helmets with bulls’ horns cheered for their team—Houston fans were listed as one of the rowdiest in the NFL—and waved posters with catchy slogans demeaning the Blizzards. I drowned out all of it, focusing on the placement of the ball on the grass, the way my muscles almost buzzed in anticipation, the cadence of my breathing.
A whistle pierced the air, and my whole body flexed. The football shifted beneath the center’s palm and I was off, sprinting upfield along the sideline, dodging and swerving and pivoting around the defenders gunning straight toward me. A beat later, bright white stars burst behind my eyelids, and a sharp, burning pain exploded in my side as a Houston cornerback crashed into me, launching me into the air. I landed with a hard thud several yards away, but I didn’t care, because the blow meant the Texans’ concentration was on me and not on the space I’d created midfield for Olson to slip through.
I rolled onto my side, desperate to find out if the hit had been worth it. I blinked away the sting of black greasepaint that had gotten into my eyes just in time to watch Dustin rush into the end zone, completely unguarded with his arms out and ready to capture Ben’s perfect spiral. I couldn’t witness the catch from my vantage point on the ground, but the irate howls from the crowd told me everything I needed to know.
Touchdown.
I knew right then, with a certainty I felt deep in my gut, that nothing was going to stop the Blizzards from dominating the rest of the game and boosting us to a 3–7 overall record. And as I walked into the tunnel, it struck me that as great as putting a mark in the win column would be, the real victory was the terse, polite nods some of the other veterans gave me, how Tony clapped me on the back as a sign of support, and the way Ben and Dustin and Austin offered me high fives and solid handshakes when I entered the locker room in time for Coach Wallace’s halftime pep talk.
It was overcast and cold, snow a breath away, when I pulled up to my mother’s home the next morning. But not even the weather could dampen my mood. I was still riding high off the Blizzards’ win against Houston. It was a small step toward squaring things with my teammates and getting the season back on track.
I let myself in through the front door and was immediately bombarded with the sound of tone-deaf singing. Which meant Gwen was here—though where was her car?—and she was cooking. And judging by the pungent scent permeating our mother’s house, it was probably her favorite grilled cheese made with ingredients that cost more than a steak dinner at Stonestreet’s.
For a moment, I wondered if facing my sister was a bad idea given the way Logan and I had left things at the gala, but then I remembered that Logan wasn’t the sort of guy to talk shit or hold a grudge.
“I see you’re using stinky gym socks in the grilled cheese again,” I said upon entering the kitchen.
Gwen stood at the state-of-the-art stove, now humming to herself as she flipped a pair of toasted sandwiches in a nonstick pan, while our mother sat at the center island, reading a magazine and sipping iced tea.
“That divine aroma you smell is imported Gruyère, you plebeian,” Gwen said, tearing off a piece of bread crust and throwing it at me. I batted it onto the marble tile floor and walked around the island to give our mother a kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Christopher, you look nice,” she said, brushing away a speck of lint on my sweater and studying me like she didn’t quite recognize me. “Something seems different about you today.”
Grinning, I spread my arms wide so she could soak in all my glory and said, “The winning glow’s back, Mom.”
Gwen snorted. “More like you applied too much fake tanner.” She switched off the stove and slid the sandwiches onto individual plates, passing one to our mother.
“Please, you know I’m all natural,” I said.
“Well, not entirely all natural,” Gwen retorted, giving me a pointed stare.
At the dig at my past behavior, the controversy surrounding my actions, my buzz faded. Would I ever catch a break?
“Thanks for the reminder, sis.” I stole a spoon from the drawer beside the stove and the Nutella from the pantry, twisting off the lid and digging in.
“Don’t you dare reuse that utensil, Christopher,” our mother said between bites of grilled cheese. “Gwen, dear, any news on Gertrude?”
“Yeah, where is the clunker?” I asked, leaning against the counter. Gwen had bought the cherry-red Nissan Sentra when she was sixteen, though the car now resembled the forgotten greenhouse tomatoes she occasionally deposited in my fridge to perish a slow, lonely death. I’d offered to purchase a newer vehicle for her, one where the tires weren’t at constant risk of popping off, but she’d refused.
Gwen ripped her sandwich in half, catching the stringy cheese that fell out of the sides of the bread in her mouth. “Sunroof exploded while I was driving. I ended up in a ditch and had to get Gertrude towed to the shop.”
“Did Logan pick you up?”
She shook her head. “No, he was in Dallas for a game when it happened. I grabbed an Uber home.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why would I call you?” Gwen gazed at me as though she was genuinely confused.
“Because I’m your brother and because I own an operational vehicle that moves from point A to point B,” I said, putting the Nutella away and depositing the spoon in the dishwasher.
Gwen lifted a shoulder, not dismissively, but like she wasn’t sure how to answer. After a moment, she replied, “Honestly, calling you didn’t even cross my mind.”
“Wow, I’m flattered that on your emergency contact list I rank below ride share.”
“It wasn’t an emergency, and anyway you’re usually so caught up in your own world I didn’t think you’d care. Plus, I had no way of knowing if you were busy or—”
“Of course I couldn’t possibly be inconvenienced to drop everything for family,” I said, my voice sharp. I didn’t want to feel offended at her words, but damn they stung. Once again, I’d been labeled as the egotistical, self-involved asshole—and from my twin no less.
“Where’s this tone coming from, Christopher?” our mother asked, wiping her fingers on a napkin and sliding her empty plate off to the side.
Where was it coming from? Why did no one in my life feel as if they could depend on me? Even Hazel. Especially Hazel. I’d let her down, which bothered me more than it should, and the reality of that fact had been dogging my steps for the past week.
When I didn’t respond, Gwen slapped a palm on the marble island, her eyes widening, and said, “Oh my gosh! This is about a woman!”
I groaned. My sister had always been skilled at reading people. It didn’t help that thoughts of Hazel were probably plastered on my face.
“Do you have a serious girlfriend, Christopher?” our mother asked, her expression hopeful, bordering on excited.
Gwen laughed. “My overprivileged twin is allergic to girlfriends. You should know this by now, Mom. Though I recently met a woman at the restaurant who might give him a run for his money.”
“Is she the one Chris was kissing in the photographs posted in Sunday’s entertainment section?” our mother asked, taking a sip of iced tea.
Gwen cocked her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at me. “There’s pictures of you kissing Hazel in the newspaper?”
“Can we stay on topic, please?” I pleaded, not wanting to tread into dangerous territory. If my sister learned how I’d dragged Hazel straight into Andrea Williams’s path, she’d gut me like a dead fish.
Gwen smirked. “Oh, I think we’re on topic. It’s quite fun watching you squirm,” she said, then polished off the rest of her grilled cheese.
“Hazel seems like a smart, steady, beautiful name,” our mother interjected, a sort of wistfulness threading her tone. “Someone mature and settled would be a nice departure from your typical Candi, Gigi, Lacy . . .”
I sighed. “My past hookups didn’t choose their names, Mom.”
“But I thought Lacy—she’s the actress you briefly went out with, right?—was a stage name,” our mother said with a puzzled look. She stood and refilled her tea from the pitcher in the fridge.
“Bet if Chris could remember Lacy’s last name, I could figure out what street she grew up on.” Gwen winked at me. Thank god our mother was clueless about how porn stars picked their aliases.
“You assume I even asked,” I said with a grin.
“Christopher!” my mother exclaimed, the glass nearly slipping from her fingers, as though she’d never heard me make such a crass comment before.
Gwen waved her off. “Don’t worry, Mom, it appears his taste in women is improving.”
“Would you drop it already?” I shot her a look that clearly indicated she needed to knock it off before I told our mother about how Gwen had broken her favorite crystal vase in the formal living room during last year’s Fourth of July party and had hidden the pieces in the backyard fountain.
“Sounds like someone’s testy,” Gwen said, stacking the dirty plates and placing them in the sink. She turned on the faucet and squirted dish soap into the running water. “But seriously, is Hazel the reason you’re suddenly playing well again? I assume you haven’t reverted back to old bad habits.”
“What are you talking about?” I furrowed my brow. “The team had their shit together, so we won. I fail to understand what Hazel has to do with it.”
She shrugged. “Just that based on your pissy attitude right now, it seems like she’s burrowed under your skin.”
“So?” I pressed.
“So maybe Hazel has gotten you fired up so much so that it’s affecting your performance,” Gwen said, glancing over her shoulder at me as she continued washing. “That last drive in the second quarter after the extended huddle, you advised Fitzpatrick to throw long to Olson even though you had the better path, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m the more heavily covered wide receiver and Olson could easily beat Houston’s cornerback in a sprint, so it made sense to use me as a decoy.”
“That’s my point. When was the last time you knew that much detail about anyone other than the quarterback? Or allowed a play that gave someone else the glory? That was a sixty-four-yard touchdown, Chris. And now Dustin Olson’s statistic.”
“It was the right thing to do,” I countered, hoping the self-consciousness churning in my stomach hadn’t bled into my voice.
“Exactly. Logan wouldn’t shut up about it. First on Fox Sports, then when he got home. He kept referring to you as a seasoned wide receiver that is finally becoming a polished leader,” she said, shutting off the faucet and drying her hands on a dish towel. “I’m guessing that wasn’t a spontaneous one-shot, so what’s changed, Chris? My guess is that it has something to do with a beautiful blonde at a local dog shelter who’s immune to your charms.”
I wanted to write off Gwen’s insinuation that Hazel had anything to do with why I’d felt more in sync with the offensive line during last night’s game, but now that I fully considered her words, I wondered if I’d taken Hazel’s comments about those who bark the loudest not leading to heart and had translated them into action on the field without me realizing it. It also made me wonder what else was different about me because of her influence. Gwen hadn’t been wrong when she’d asked why I cared about her not calling me in the midst of her car issues. A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have given the slight a second thought, but now . . .
“Oh, is Hazel someone you volunteer with? That’s nice you both have common interests,” our mother cut in, as though me being assigned to shit-shoveling duty at Rescue Granted had been my choice.
“No, she owns the shelter, Mom. And anyway, Hazel doesn’t want much to do with me these days,” I said, wishing I could pluck that last statement out of the air. No doubt my mother and Gwen would latch on to it the way Waffles latched on to my leg when he wanted a treat.
Sure enough, Gwen asked, “What’d you do?”
“Why do you presume I’m the one at fault?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow, confirming that I should’ve kept my mouth shut, as the cordless landline rang on the counter. Our mother excused herself, retreating into the living room to answer the phone. When I looked back at Gwen, she was still staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“Okay, fine, I screwed up,” I said, raking fingers through my hair. “But I’d rather not go into specifics.”
“Fair enough. How are you going to fix it?” Gwen gathered the ingredients she’d brought with her and walked over to the breakfast nook, dumping the items in her arms into the wicker basket on the table.
I held up my hands, at a loss. “Stay out of her way and try not to piss her off?”
“That’s the best you can come up with?” she asked, her expression an equal mix of irritated and flabbergasted. “It’s not like you to give up so easily. Do you like Hazel or not?”
Gwen was right. I wasn’t one to back down in the face of the opposition. Assuming, of course, the reward was worth the effort. Which was the million-dollar question: Was Hazel worth fighting for . . . changing for? Because that’s what would be required to win her over. No amount of empty gestures would impress her. If I wanted to alter Hazel’s opinion of me, I was going to have to dig deep, show her romantic overtures and moves she couldn’t possibly ignore. I’d never undertaken such an endeavor for a woman, and I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that committing to this idea didn’t mean something. That she didn’t mean something to me. But if I opened this playbook, I’d have to be 100 percent committed.
“So which is it, Chris?” Gwen asked, placing a hand on her hip and looking at me like despite the fact that I was a jock, I had a brain and I’d better use it.
“Yeah, I like her,” I said without hesitation. I liked the way Hazel’s green eyes lit up when she laughed, how her voice grew animated anytime she spoke about the many dogs she’d saved, and the way she challenged me to imagine that I could be more than the cocky, playboy, empty-headed wide receiver the fans and media salivated over. I liked everything about her, even the smattering of freckles dotting her nose. Now I needed to prove that she could feel the same way about me.
A smile spread across my sister’s face. “Then it’s time to do what you do best.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Shock and awe and charm, FIGJAM,” Gwen said. “Shock and awe and charm.”
A few hours later, armed and ready, I waltzed into Rescue Granted in search of Hazel. I found her in the rehabilitation area, crouched down on her hands and knees on the floor of Olive’s kennel, using a soothing, gentle voice and a Nylabone in an attempt to coax Olive out from under the bed. Frozen’s “Let It Go” was playing on the boom box, and I considered telling Hazel she should perhaps take the song’s advice based on the lack of success she was having.
“Olive, you adored this plastic toy yesterday. You chewed on it for hours, so what’s the matter?” Hazel asked, sticking her arm farther beneath the bed. Olive scooted closer to the wall, her tail tucked between her legs.
I leaned against the kennel’s open door, trying to keep my eyes off Hazel’s ass raised in the air and failing. “I thought you were aware that Olive strictly adheres to the buddy system—she’s not budging an inch without her wingman present.”
Hazel jolted at the sound of my voice, banging her forehead on Olive’s metal bed frame. Guilt sliced through me at startling her, but then Hazel sat back on her heels, blowing wisps of hair out of her eyes, and I laughed at the murderous expression on her face. I couldn’t help it. She was beautiful when she was pissed off.
“How about you try these,” I said, passing her the container of cookies Gwen had helped me bake.
“What are they?” Hazel popped off the lid and scrutinized the snickerdoodles as though they might poison her.
I shrugged and hooked my thumbs in my belt loops. “Treats that both humans and dogs can enjoy.”
“Is this your pathetic attempt at an apology for the gala?” she asked.
“Nope. I tendered my pathetic apology last time we saw each other. I’m moving on to plan B.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Wooing you, Hazel Grant.” Speaking the words out loud, hearing the conviction in my tone, only served to solidify my earlier belief that Hazel was absolutely worth the effort.
She shook her head and looked at me as if I were as appealing as a mutt with hookworms. “That won’t work, Lalonde.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, then began to whistle along with Elsa.
The moment my whistle transformed into a hum, Olive’s little black nose appeared at the edge of the bed frame, her big brown eyes following, her tail thumping on the ground.
Hazel huffed in indignation. “Leave it to you to have a voice only a dog could love.”
I grinned that insufferable grin she pretended to hate. This was going to be fun.