“I’ll live.”
“Glad to hear.”
I return to the counter, where Zuri’s already arranged the lavender in the vases. I take a piece of coconut bread from the box and bite into the…well, the truce.
And it’s too delicious. Like Chloe.
12
THE ACCIDENTAL INNUENDO
CHLOE
An ironic print of dogs lounging on beach chairs with their legs crossed. A quirky painting of a mutt sporting a Gatsby-style suit. A peaceful image of a Golden Retriever raising his snout toward the sun.
The walls in my home are covered in dog art acquired from thrift shops over the years.
If I were training local mutts, they’d be perfect. I’d liberate these from my walls and bring them into Chloe’s Paw-sitive Dog Training to decorate. But I need to look the part for celebrity mutts. And that calls for a different vibe.
I spent most of last night with my top intelligence officer in the dog training business—also known as Google—scouring photos of training spaces in Los Angeles, Santa Monica, Hollywood, Bel Air. The overwhelming evidence points to two must-have weapons when it comes to dog trainer decor: pink and white.
Since Veronica’s besties are coming in next week for their lessons, that means I need to decorate the space today.
Icouldask Sawyer’s permission. He is the owner, and technically, the lease says improvements need to be approved by the landlord. He seems like a bit of a stickler, the kind of guy who’d want to review every clause, dot everyiand cross everyt—probably a Capricorn with his rules and discipline and triathloning. Not sure I have the time for that kind of scrutiny. But he was also a supreme dickface yesterday, and if I know anything about men who say they’re sorry, it’s that you’ve got a good twenty-four hours to use their guilt to your advantage.
And speaking of advantages…Did I catch him distracted by my chest yesterday?
I hate to do this (I totally don’t), but sometimes you need to play to your strengths. I pull on a white lacy bra (studies show basic white lace distracts men the most), a white T-shirt with the neckline cut to highlight the slope of my shoulder, and a pair of purple leggings. If he happens to be discombobulated by the shape of my ass—well, that’s on him.
All’s fair in love and in sharing a workspace with yourone-night stand turned landlord-ish co-worker you’re never sleeping with again.
There’s one more element to this plan: Captain.
He’s the most lovable Shepherd mix in existence. If anyone can soften a grump, it’s my guy.
After our morning walk, I open the door to the backseat of my car, and Captain hops in, flopping down on his dog bed. I scratch behind his ears and kiss his head. “Let’s do this, buddy.”
He pants. That’s a yes.
With a prayer to the goddesses of temperamental cars, I turn the key in Roxie’s ignition and sing the chorus of “All That Jazz” fromChicagoto coax her on. It works. I swing by Josiah’s Hardware and hop out with my boy. I grab a few cans of nontoxic paint, as well as supplies, and stop to pet Josiah’s cat Sheldon, who Captain ignores since he’s unfazed by felines. I check out and head straight to work.
Amazingly, Roxie survives the journey. I pat her hood. “Keep it up, girl, and I’ll get you fixed real soon. Promise.”
I swear she gives a grateful sigh.
I head to the door of Dog Tails with my paint cans, a canvas bag full of brushes, a roller and a tray, my dog, and a huge smile. But before I open it, I turn to Captain. “Stay,” I say, holding up a stop-sign hand, a paint can dangling on my wrist.
He parks his butt, tail still wagging. “Good boy,” I say, then tug open the door.
Behind the counter, dogs tussle and collars jingle. The sound of water patters in the back room. One of the groomers must be here. I bet that’s Levi, since he’s a morning guy. Zuri told me yesterday that Sawyer had re-hired pretty much everyone who had previously worked here, like Hazel, a college student who’s pre-vet at the local university. She oversees the dog daycare. There’s another groomer too—Nisha, who also used to work for the prior business.
I don’t hate that—his efforts to keep business flowing to the local economy.
For now, I focus on Sawyer, who’s behind the counter, chattingon the phone. Sounds like he’s talking to one of the managers since he’s saying something about the update to the reservation system. He stops to run a hand down his tie. It’s a striking shade of blue, nearly sapphire, and it looks good with his rich, brown eyes. Not that I’d tell Mister Serious Boss, in his dark slacks and checked shirt, that he looks suit-hot. Especially with a play area full of dogs wrestling behind him, since dogs make every man look hotter.
He ends the call right as I breeze in with the paint cans. “Good morning, Mr. Dumont,” I call out.
There. That’s business-friendly. Truce-like.
