Alexei stays by the gate, not stiff or uneasy, more like he’s letting the room happen while keeping the whole thing within his reach.
I crouch near Ivy. “That one there is Clover,” I tell her, nodding to the brown-and-white female gnawing on a rope toy. “And the spotted one trying to climb your leg is Biscuit.”
“Biscuit,” Ivy repeats solemnly as if committing it to memory. “That’s a good name.”
“It suits him. He’s sweet and always underfoot.”
Jules snorts from the doorway.
I glance back. “What? He is.”
Alexei watches his daughter with an expression so quiet I almost miss it. Maybe it’s how he never takes his eyes off Ivy for more than a few seconds. Or maybe it’s just that he brought her here at all, when he seems like the last man who’d invite any unpredictability into his day.
I straighten. “Puppies are wonderful,” I say, brushing fur from my thigh, “but they’re also tiny chaos agents. If you’re lookin’ for a first dog, I usually steer folks toward adults with known habits. Especially with a child in the house.”
Alexei’s attention moves to me. “That seems reasonable.”
Ivy leans against my side as if we’ve known each other far longer than six minutes. “Can we see the adult dogs?”
“We sure can.”
We make our way slowly through the kennel hall. I tell Ivy who likes belly rubs and who prefers space, who came in from animal control, and who was left tied outside a grocery store with a note tucked under his collar. She listens hard, not with the wild, passing interest some kids have when grown-ups are talking, but with her whole face.
At Daisy’s kennel, she crouches right beside me. Daisy is a yellow lab mix with sugar on her muzzle and hips that rise a little slower these days. Sweet as pie, housebroken, and loves tennis balls like they personally offended her.
“She looks tired,” Ivy whispers.
“She’s older,” I say, resting my fingers through the bars so Daisy can nose them. “Not sick, though. She still likes walks and treats and sun puddles.”
“What’s a sun puddle?”
“The patch on the floor where the sunshine falls. Dogs know where to find ’em better than anybody.”
Ivy nods very seriously. “I like those too.”
I smile at her. “Then you and Daisy may have a lot in common.”
We go on like that for a while. Ivy meets Junebug, who cries if you stop petting her too soon, and Moose, a one-eyed hound with a bark too big for his body. Alexei listens more than he speaks, and when he does, he asks real questions aboutvet history, age, behavior around children, crate training, and routine.
The man moves through a shelter as if he respects systems. That shouldn’t be attractive, yet here I am. My attention drops just enough to notice there’s no wedding ring on his hand and no mark where one’s been either.
Which is none of my business.
At all.
At Bella’s kennel, I reach into my pocket while explaining that Bella would do best in a home without cats. What I mean to grab is my folded kennel notes. What I actually pull out is a peanut-butter dog treat shaped like a bone.
Without thinking, because apparently my brain leaves my body whenever this man is within six feet of me, I hold it out toward Alexei and say, “Here.”
Silence. Pure, holy, burning silence. I stare at the treat in my hand. Then at him. Then at the treat again.
Jules makes a strangled noise behind me that sounds like a man being fought by his own laughter.
Ivy blinks up at me.
My face goes up in flames so fast I’m amazed the smoke alarm hasn’t gone off.
“Oh, my word,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I meant—this is for the dog.”
