While Chloe walks them through a command and reward, I keep my eyes trained on the screen in front of me. The numbers are telling me that this location is doing better in its first week than others. Could be because there used to be a daycare here before and the team is strong. I tune out the session for the most part—it’s best not to really eavesdrop—but then Ponytail’s soprano voice carries bright and loud with, “Oh my god. I have to tell you. My boyfriend—he’s one of the location scouts—told me they can’t do all the interior shots in LA anymore. The studio they were going to use for the pet supply store burned in the fires and hasn’t been rebuilt yet.”
That piques my interest.
A lot.
I make a mental note to ask Chloe about it later. When the session ends, she walks them and the big dogs to the SUV, then returns, beelining to me, eyes wide as saucers. Slapping her hands on the counter, she looks as if she’s about to burst. “The producers are in town in two days. We need to come up with a plan to pitch the daycare as a location.”
I couldn’t love her scheming more. “And you as the trainer.”
Chloe’s brow knits for a second, like she’s confused, but then she waves a hand, dismissing that confusion, and moves on. “Let’s talk later. Brainstorm and all.”
“I’m in,” I say, then we set a time to scheme seven hours from now.
Which should be great news. Except now I’m not sure what’s more dangerous—sharing space with the woman I can’t stop thinking about…or teaming up with her.
14
MY REBEL SIDE
SAWYER
The second we shut down for the night, I’m out of there—locking the door at Dog Tails and heading down the block past Pick Me Up on my way to Prohibition Spirit. Chloe told me she had a few off-site dog training sessions, so she’d meet me there.
It’s a short walk, just long enough to listen to “Wonderwall” as I go, and most of “Ain’t No Sunshine.” With some reluctance, I turn off the Bill Withers tune I’ve been humming along to when I arrive at the bar.
The deep, rich-red door is like an invitation to slip back in time. I push it open, my eyes adjusting quickly to the dim lighting of the whiskey bar. The whole speakeasy vibe is working here from the jazzy old standards playing overhead to the elegant whiskey bottles standing proudly on mirrored shelves. I zero in on the redhead at the bar. She’s talking to the woman behind it—a tall bartender with a regal chin, curly hair, rich-bronze skin, and a silver stud in theside of her nose. They’re chatting like old friends. Chloe’s head is tossed back in laughter, her auburn hair falling in big waves down her back. She’s wearing a light-green top that slopes off one shoulder and a short, flirty skirt.
Hmm.
That’s not what she wore earlier to her dog training lessons. A wild thought zings across my skin, makes me square my shoulders, maybe even swagger a little as I head over. The idea that she might have dressed up for me hijacks my mouth.
“You changed for me?” I ask. I know better. I really do.
She rolls her eyes. “I had dog slobber all over my shirt from my four o’clock. Do not flatter yourself…Mister Serious Boss.”
And the nickname’s stuck. All things considered, it could be worse. But maybe it’ll remind me to stop fucking flirting with Chloe. To act like the boss. Even though I’m notherboss.
Chloe nods to the bartender. “A mojito for me, Esmeralda. With your best rum,” she says, then points her thumb my way. “Put it on his tab.”
Well then. Consider me thoroughly dressed down.
“Done.” The bartender slides a coaster in front of me. “What’ll it be for you, Mister Serious Boss?”
I’ll never live this nickname down. “Whiskey sour, please,” I say.
“Yeah, that tracks,” Chloe says.
Esmeralda fights off a smile as she nods to me. “Top shelf too, I trust?”
“When in Rome,” I say, since clearly Chloe’s making me pay still. Which is fair.
“Now that I think about it, Iamhungry.” Chloe spins my way. “The truffle fries here are to die for. So’s the arugula salad with fresh strawberries and farm-raised lettuce. And you can’t go wrong with the chargrilled tomato soup.”
I keep a poker face as I add, “At least you didn’t say caviar.”
She shudders. “I never say caviar.”
“Right. Of course,” I say, since I’m pretty sure she doesn’t eat meat. “Let’s do it.”
