Page 5 of Wag More Bark Less

“Luke?” I repeated, momentarily thrown by such a good, strong, attractive name being paired with the biggest pain-in-the-ass host I’d been corresponding with. He would ruin a good name.

“Is that who you’re waiting for?” the man asked, his gaze dropping to Ellie. After a few seconds of sizing her up, the man’s pinched lips eased into a faint smile. Ellie had that way with people, softening the crustiest of them with her unwavering stare. To look at her was to know happiness deep in one’s soul. It was impossible to elicit any other response.

Good girl, Ellie.

“Yes. I can’t get ahold of him. We’ve been on the road all day, and my bladder is very full.” I gave him my best puppy dog eyes, hoping this complete stranger took pity on me. But in case that wasn’t enough, I added, “Thank you for your service, by the way.”

The man adjusted his hat again, mumbling something of a thank you as his mouth formed back into a frown. As though my words made him uncomfortable. I understood the feeling more than he’d realize, but it didn’t make it any easier to explain.

“My grandpa served in the Korean War,” I added.

“I was just heading out⁠—”

Ellie sauntered up the two steps and offered the old man a blue, yellow, and purple striped sock. I patted my back pocket. The sock she snuck into the back seat somewhere between Salt Lake City and Grand Junction was missing. She’d secretly pilfered it without me noticing.

“It’s an Ellie thing,” I said, as though that explained her quirk.

If my pup sensed someone was stressed or on edge, her instinct was to offer them a random sock as comfort. Sometimes, she did it simply because she liked them. Although an endearing quality, this came without regard for splitting up pairs, which is why I took to buying the pup her own collection so she’d stop stealing from mine.

It worked . . . mostly.

He stared down at my dog for a moment. Ellie patiently waited until he at last decided to accept the offered sock. He gave her a head scratch in thanks, the faintest smile once again cracking across his otherwise grumpy expression. “You know, I think I have some extra treats in the kitchen. I keep them for when my granddog visits.”

My typically indifferent dog perked at the mention of treats, her ears lifting. It made her irresistibly cute.

Falling victim to Ellie’s charms, the man turned to unlock the door. To my dog, he added, “Why don’t I take a look for those Milk Bones while your mom uses the washroom?”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I sang all the way to the bathroom.

The relief I felt as I silently cursed the mega gulp was almost as good as an orgasm. Almost. Not that I remembered what a good orgasm felt like these days, thanks to an overbearing monster-in-law-to-be overstaying her welcome.

Ex-monster-in-law-to-be.

After washing my hands, I stole a few seconds checking my phone. But of course, there was nothing from the host. Only a few hundred unread emails that’d found their way into my inbox during the day’s drive, a text from Mom asking if I’d made it to Colorado yet, two missed calls from Jason, and one short voicemail. Maybe he was finally giving up.

Or maybe I struck a nerve when I told him he could just marry his mom.

“Can you shake?” I heard the old man ask Ellie from his kitchen.

Before I could make it through the living room to explain that my dog was stubborn and only performed tricks when she felt like it—one of the reasons she failed out of service dog training—I heard a cheerful, surprised laugh, and held back a moment.

“Well, I’ll be. You’re a smart cookie, aren’t you, girl?”

“Ellie, are you charming the pants off of your new friend?”

“Ellie,” he said, as though assessing. “That’s a good name.”

The end of the pup’s tail swished against the linoleum floor, earning her an even wider smile. The sock she’d offered the man was folded in half on the counter, next to a box of Milk Bones.

“I’m Maggie,” I told him again, extending my hand. “Maggie Holland.”

“Walter Smalley,” he answered, shaking my hand. “How long you in town for, Maggie?”

“About a month.”

“The rest of September, then?”

“And into the beginning of October,” I confirmed. “Hoping to get my fall fix.”