Back at his apartment, the real work begins. “Okay,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “You start cleaning up the biological hazards. I'll set up their feeding station.”
“Why do I get the poop duty?”
“Because they're your puppies.”
“Technically, they're rescue puppies. That makes them our puppies.”
The casual way he says ‘our’ shouldn't make me feel anything, but it does. I ignore it and focus on opening dog food bags and measuring portions.
For the next two hours, we work as a team. Liam follows my directions without his usual attitude, and I find myself laughing at his running commentary on puppy behavior.
“That one, what should we call him? He’s definitely the troublemaker,” he says, pointing to a golden male who's systematically shredding a rope toy. “Look at his face. He knows exactly what he's doing.”
“Nova,” I suggest with a straight face.
Liam's mouth drops open in mock offense. “Excuse me? I am not a troublemaker.”
“You bought six puppies on impulse and called me at eight PM for help.”
He grins, and my heart flutters.Damn this man. “Troublemakers have more fun.”
He points at the female who is sitting primly while her brothers create chaos around her. “That’s Avery.”
I laugh. “Why would you name her after me?”
“Look at her.” He crouches down beside the puppy, who gazes at him with serious eyes. “She's the only one not getting into trouble. And see how she keeps looking at the door? She's already planning her escape route in case things get too chaotic.”
I swallow a lump in my throat.
“She's also the most beautiful one,” he adds quietly, looking up at me with those dark eyes that make my pulse skip. “And she seems to think she's too good for all this mess, but she hasn't left yet.”
Heat creeps up my neck. He's definitely not just talking about the puppy.
Discomfort comes over me. I don’t want to be invested in this man and his puppies. “We're not naming them.”
“Why not? They need names.”
“Because you're going to get attached, and then you'll be heartbroken when you have to give them up.”
He stops arranging puppy beds and looks at me. “Who says I'm giving them up?”
“Liam. You travel constantly. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone six dogs.”
“I can learn.”
He's serious about this. Completely, impractically serious. “They'll grow up,” I point out. “Six full-grown golden retrievers in a penthouse apartment?”
“I'll figure it out.”
I want to argue, to point out all the logical reasons this is a terrible idea. But this is not the time. “Fine,” I say. “But you need someone to watch over them when you’re at work.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
It must be nice to be the kind of person who just goes with the flow like that. Who makes decisions based on feeling instead of spreadsheets and risk assessments.
I've spent my entire adult life planning every detail, anticipating every possible outcome, building safety nets for my safety nets.
We're complete opposites. Liam throws himself into situations headfirst. I calculate the depth of the water before I even consider getting my toes wet.
