“So,” Connor says, settling more comfortably on the blanket beside me, “hypothetically speaking, if we were to get a dog, what kind would you want?”
The casual way he asks the question, as if we’re actually planning a future together, makes my heart stutter. I take a sip of wine to hide my reaction and get my thoughts together.
“Well,” I say after a moment, setting my glass down carefully, “there’s this one dog at the shelter where I work. She’s been there for over a year now. Nobody wants her because she’s already seven, even though she’s amazing and completely healthy. She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Connor’s expression softens. “What kind of dog is she?”
“Nobody knows exactly,” I say with a small laugh. “She’s not too big, maybe twenty-five pounds? The vet thinks she’s part corgi, part shiba inu, and part…who knows. Maybe fox? She kind of looks like a fox, actually, with these big pointy ears and this fluffy curled tail.”
“She sounds cute.” Connor smiles, leaning forward a little. “What’s her name?”
“Pumpkin,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “Wait, I’ll show you.”
I scroll through my photos until I find the folder dedicated entirely to Pumpkin—because yes, I’m that person—and hand my phone to Connor. “That’s her.”
Connor’s face changes as he swipes through the photos, his eyes crinkling at the corners, an even bigger smile spreading across his face. “She’s adorable,” he says softly, lingering on a video of Pumpkin chasing a ball, her little legs a blur of motion. “Look at those ears.”
“Right?” I watch him, warmth blooming in my chest at his reaction.
“She’s perfect,” Connor says, swiping through my embarrassingly extensive Pumpkin photo collection. “Look at how she tilts her head in this one.”
“That’s her ‘give me a treat’ pose,” I explain, leaning closer to see the screen. “She’s manipulative as hell. Works every time, though.”
Connor chuckles. “Smart girl.”
He pauses on a video I took one morning when I arrived at the shelter and Pumpkin did her little happy dance. Her whole body wiggles with such joy it’s almost painful to watch.
“Oh my God,” he says quietly, and I notice his eyes are suspiciously bright.
Is he—?
No. Connor O’Reilly, stoic Irish doctor, is not getting emotional over cute dog videos.
Except he absolutely is.
“Nobody wants her because she’s seven?” he asks, his voice tight with disbelief.
“Most people want puppies,” I say with a shrug that I hope hides how much it actually gets to me. “They don’t want to take on an older dog, because that means fewer years together and heartbreak sooner rather than later. Even though with her health, she probably has at least five or six good years left. Maybe more.”
Connor hands me back my phone, his expression serious. “People are idiots.”
“Preaching to the choir,” I say, tucking the phone into my pocket. “I’ve been trying to find her a home since she came to us. Nobody gets past the age thing.”
Connor nods, his face thoughtful. “You said you might take her, though? If you move?”
“That’s my dream.” I take another sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. “Once I have a place that’s more suitable for dogs than our building.”
“That’s really cool,” Connor says, unwrapping one of the sandwiches and handing it to me. “She’d be lucky to have you.”
My face heats, and I look down at the sandwich like it needs my full attention. “Well, she’ll only be lucky if I figure out my living situation first,” I say. “I’m not bringing her into that shoebox.”
“I’m sure you will,” Connor says, giving me a small smile.
There’s something almost sad in his eyes when he says it, and I don’t know what to do with that.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the water lapping gently against the shore and the occasional bird call from somewhere in the trees. It’s so peaceful that my chest aches with a strange kind of nostalgia for something I haven’t even lost yet.
This weekend.
