“That's why I called you.”
She steps inside and closes the door, immediately crouching down as the puppies surround her. They seem to sense she's not a threat because they start climbing over each other to get to her.
“Hey, babies,” she says softly, and her whole demeanor changes. The professional mask drops away, replaced by something tender. “Oh, you're so little. How old are they?”
“About eight weeks.”
She picks up the female and examines her gently. “She's beautiful. They all are. But Liam, puppies this young need constant care. They need to eat every few hours, go outside constantly, they can't be left alone.”
Panic starts creeping back. “I fucked up, didn't I?”
She looks at me then. “No. You saved them. That matters. We just need to figure out the logistics.”
We. Not you. She's not lecturing me about impulse control or responsibility. She's staying.
“First things first,” she says, still holding the puppy. “They need food, water, and a safe space. Do you have anything?”
I shrug, feeling like a complete idiot. “Nothing.”
“It's okay. We'll figure it out.” She stands up, puppy still in her arms. “Pet store first, then we'll puppy-proof your apartment. This is going to be a long night.”
I just nod and grab my keys. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her smile is the first real one I've seen from her since Chicago.
7
Avery
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the pet store aisle holding a shopping list that looks like I'm planning to survive the apocalypse with six small mammals.
Puppy food, bowls, toys, beds, leashes, collars, training pads, cleaning supplies, and approximately seventeen other things the overly enthusiastic store clerk insisted were absolutely essential.
“Do they really need organic, grain-free, large-breed formula?” Liam asks, holding up a bag of dog food.
“Unless you want six puppies with upset stomachs destroying your apartment even more thoroughly than they already have, yes.” I stifle a laugh. This is insane, but for once, it’s not my insane that’s driving me insane.
Seeing Liam with those puppies shows me he's capable of caring about something other than himself, and it's terrifying how much that affects me.
He winces and adds the food to our cart, which is already overflowing with puppy paraphernalia. I'm doing mental math on the total cost and trying not to think about how this is definitely not in my job description.
“What about these?” He holds up a set of tiny sweaters with little bones printed on them.
“Liam. They have fur. They don't need sweaters.”
He pouts a little. “But they're so small. What if they get cold?”
I stare at him. This is the same man who once showed up to practice in a helicopter and got thrown out of a nightclub for starting a champagne fight. Now he's worried about puppies getting cold.
“Fine. Get the sweaters.”
His smile is so wide, it makes my chest tighten. Which is ridiculous, because this entire situation is ridiculous. I should be home with a glass of wine and a good book, not enabling my crisis-prone client's latest impulsive decision.
But when he carefully picks out a different sweater for each puppy, reading the sizes with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, I melt.
The cashier's eyes widen when she rings up our total. “Are you starting a puppy daycare?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, watching Liam hand over his credit card without even looking at the amount. Must be nice to make impulsive six-hundred-dollar pet store runs without breaking a sweat.
