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Those things are all fine. But I need actual, practical answers on how to get through this week with two needy dogs.
My once-spotless entryway is now cluttered with doggy things: a big bag of food, the two beds, various rubber squeaky toys, gnawed-on bones, bowls, leashes, pillows, and stuffed animals.
I nudge a slobbery teddy bear with the toe of my sneaker.
Mr. Brown growls at me. With great effort, he gets off his bed and walks, stiff-legged, to the teddy bear. He gently picks it up with his mouth and carries it back to his bed. But before lying back down, he spreads his back legs.
A stream of urine pelts the floor.
The splashing sound echoes off the walls.
Though no one is around to hear me, I curse aloud. Then, I check my phone. That unexpected visit with Kate ate up a half-hour. Very soon, I’ll have to get on my call with Bailey in Taiwan.
This is Gwen’s fault, I realize. She should be the one to figure out how to handle it.
I pull up my contacts and scroll through to ‘Executive Assistant.’
I open a text thread. Then, I snap a photo of one of the rawhide bones littering the floor and send it.
Next, I type out a quick message: “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Chapter 6
Gwen
Make. It. Stop.
It is now very late at night, and I have had a very long day. And yet, this phone keeps right on beeping. Chiming. Pinging. And even ringing.
Right now, a new text has apparently come in.
Do I dare open it?
Is it going to be some fire that I have to put out?
Will it be Tate yet again, or Vanessa… or that accountant who kept pestering me for all sorts of information that took me way too long to find?
I don’t know if I can handle another deep dive into the sea of apps on that executive assistant tablet. I really don’t.
Clay looks across the table at me. “Is that your work phone again?”
I pat my lips with a napkin and sigh. “Yep.”
We just finished a late dinner. Lizzy’s chicken noodle soup was delicious. Total comfort food, which was much-needed given my hectic day.
I reach for the phone and open the text. “Shoot. It’s from my boss.” I tilt my head to the side and examine the photo Brock has mysteriously decided to send me at half past eight in the evening. “Is this… is this a—what is this?—a dog bone?” I slide the phone over so that Clay can take a look.
“Yep. Looks it to me. Why’s he sending you a picture of a dog bone?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t have a dog.”
I take the phone back and quickly scan the message that follows: “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Uh oh.
Is this his weird, quirky, rich-entrepreneur way of telling me I’m in trouble? Brock is constantly telling us employees to think outside the box. He wants us to be creative. Well, this is a creative text message, I guess.
What am I supposed to say back?
