1
MAGGIE
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Elvis, the dachshund, making a beeline for me as I push through the intake room with a stack of folded blankets against my chest. He weaves between my feet like a furry torpedo with bad intentions, and my boot bumps the yellow mop bucket by the sink.
“Lord have mercy?—”
Water splashes out, and the bucket rolls away. I swing one arm to catch my balance, fail completely, and end up sliding across the tile with about as much grace as a drunk bridesmaid at a wedding.
The blankets go airborne. I grab for the counter, miss it completely, and land on one knee in a shallow puddle while a damp towel hangs off my shoulder like a surrender flag.
Elvis barks once, high and smug.
From the doorway, Jules gasps like I’ve just committed a crime. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. It’s eight-thirteen in the mornin’, and you are not allowed to let that dog win.”
I push wet hair off my cheek and glare at Elvis as he trots away with one of my clean washcloths dangling from his mouth. “You saw him lunge.”
“I saw a twelve-pound sausage with ambition.” Jules leans against the doorframe, iced coffee in hand, perfectly dry and entirely too pleased with himself. “I also saw you lose a fight with a mop bucket.”
“It was a sneak attack,” I mutter, bracing one hand on the counter and hauling myself upright.
“Bless your heart. That bucket is bright yellow.”
I swipe the towel off my shoulder and point it at him. “You are hateful before 9 AM.”
“No, ma’am. I’m observant before 9 AM. There’s a difference.”
I shoot him a look, but there’s no real anger in it. There never is. Julian Mercer, or Jules as everyone calls him, has earned the right to say just about anything to me. It’s bad for my pride and excellent for his entertainment.
He leans against the doorframe, looking completely relaxed. He’s tall and always put together, which doesn’t really fit a place full of fur and chaos. His skin is dark, his hair is neat but not fussy, and his sleeves are rolled just enough to show his forearms. His watch sits perfectly in place, like he’s got his whole life organized down to the minute. He always looks like he walked out of a magazine and just ended up here. And somehow, he makes it work.
Jules is my assistant manager, which really means he runs half the place, whether I admit it or not. He handles volunteers, paperwork, schedules, and all the things that would get missed ifit were just me and my tendency to chase whatever animal needs help the fastest.
He’s also my best friend and my chosen family. And he’s very, very gay. Something he’ll remind you of within five minutes if you ever assume otherwise.
Elvis circles back like he’s considering a second round. I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t even look at me. I fed you, medicated you, and I complimented your ears. I’ve done my part.”
He sneezes on my boot.
Jules takes a slow sip of his iced coffee. “You ever consider startin’ your day like a normal person?”
I push a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Define normal.”
“Feet on the ground. Pride intact. No witnesses.”
I snort and bend to scoop up the fallen blankets. “That sounds overrated.”
“No, what you’re doin’ is overrated.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He says it easily, like it’s already decided, and the truth of it sits warm somewhere behind my ribs before I can help it.
Second Chance Savannah is already awake around us, kennel doors clanking, nails tapping against concrete, the low hum of the old ceiling fan out front that sounds like it’s holding on out of spite. The air smells like lemon cleaner, kibble, and that faint, clean edge of spring drifting in through the cracked front windows.
It’s not fancy or polished. Half the clipboards don’t match, and one of the front desk drawers only opens if you jiggle it just right. I love it anyway.
