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“I did.” I feel his gaze on me now. He’s judging me. How am I shaping up?
Maybe it would help if I spoke less about the emotional qualities of colors. It would also help if I put on my shoes. I flip one upturned clog with my toes, then jam my foot in. Then, I go to work on the other.
“You could use your hands,” Brock notes.
“I bought these so I could slip them on and off. Clogs used to be made of wood, you know. My mom has a pair of wooden ones. Willow wood. They’re painted, too. With flowers.”
The clog flips too far one way, then tips the other. “Cooperate!” I say under my breath.
“Did you just tell your clog to cooperate?”
The clog finally lands upright and aligned, and I slip my foot in. “I did. There.”
Zoey’s warm body presses into one side of me. On the other, Mr. Brown is busily trying to fit a wet tennis ball into my palm.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Brock asks.
“I am. I walked them, fed them… water bowl is full.” I wave around the space. “The room is all cleaned up. They should be cozy on those beds for the night. I’ll work on lining up care again in the morning. I tried a few places, but no one’s picking up.”
“You mean, you haven’t arranged boarding yet? They’re staying here?” His voice takes on a harder edge. “That won’t work.”
“Well… um… I’m really sorry. I tried calling places. I… er… I really don’t know what else to tell you.”
“They can’t stay here. Not tonight, not any night.”
“Brock,” I begin. The name sounds all wrong on my tongue. I bite my lip and fight down a wave of anxiety. “Er, Mr. Benson?—”
He waves this off. “Brock is fine.”
“Okay… Well, it’s too late at night to get them to a dog boarding place. There are only two in Windsor, another few in Riley, and no one takes appointment-making calls overnight. In the morning, I’ll?—”
“No,” he says again.
No?
I’m terrible at saying that word to people. I really am. That particular weakness has haunted me for my entire life. It’s like having a chronic illness—the inability to set boundaries—and I’m constantly paying for it.
But Brock… he seems to have no problem uttering the word. Quite the opposite, actually. He seems to like saying no. It’s like it feels good to him.
“No,” he says again while looking around him and running his hand through his hair again.
Mm mm. His muscular arms sure do look good when he does that.
“No, they can’t stay here,” he repeats.
“I’m sorry.”
Ugh. I said it again. ‘I’m sorry.’ When did this become something I should apologize for?
My throat goes dry with pent-up nervousness. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this. But I can’t exactly think of anything else to… um… to do.”
I have never been a quick thinker.
Apparently, Brock’s stunning good looks make it even harder for me to come up with responses.
“He pees.” Brock gestures to Mr. Brown. Then he swivels his finger to sweet, big-eyed Zoey. “This one drools.”
“That may be, but…”
