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“We were,” Noah teases. “Isn’t that right? High-five, man.” Noah holds his hand up, and Raffy lifts his paw to pat it.
I get up, taking the waterproof case I’ve stowed my phone in with me. Back in the water, the three of us play, and I take pictures the whole time—of Noah, Raffy, and me.
Some of them I’ll use for social media, but some of them are just for me, like the ones with Noah in them.
“Here, let me take some of you and Raffy,” Noah says, and I hand him my phone.
I dunk down under the water to get my face on the same level as Raffy and puff up my cheeks like a chipmunk. I pull several other silly faces and then a few happy smile ones too. I hold Raffy up out of the water for a few, sit in the shallows with Raffy lying at my side for more, and even guide Raffy to lie on his back and then lie out beside him as though we’ve both fallen asleep in the beautiful, golden sun.
“Perfect. Each and every one,” Noah tells me, giving my phone back. “You want to flip through them to see if you got what you need? I’ll take Raffy back out for a bit.”
I cannot express how much it means to me that he understands. Most people think I snap a few pictures and poof, done. But it’s more than that. The photo has to be right—lighting, expressions, flattering to both Raffy and me, and expressing the right thing. In this case, utter joy in a beautiful day with doggy friends in the water. Showing the brand on the life vest or hat wouldn’t hurt either, but I don’t have to do that since they’re not sponsors. Yet.
“Thank you,” I tell him before standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. “It’ll be fast. Promise.”
“Take your time, Sunshine. Me and the Raffster have some hardcore relaxing to do.”
Noah’s just starting to slosh his way into the pool when I feel a presence and a shadow passes over me. I look up to see a woman standing next to me. “Hello . . . uhm, I know this is weird, but are you Riley Sunshine? And is that Raffy?”
“Yes, can I help you?” I ask, sitting all the way up. The woman’s wearing a floppy sunhat and a one-piece top with shorts that say, ‘I’m here to run around with my dog, not flirt with you, random stranger.’ Something about that reassures me, dog mom to dog mom.
“I’m a fan of yours and I was hoping . . . could I get a picture of you guys with Muggles?”
“Muggles?” I ask, and the woman nods.
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have been reassured because I think she’s gotten a bit too much sun today.
“My daughter is a huge Harry Potter fan,” the woman says with a laugh. “He’s just over here.”
Oh, her dog’s name is Muggles. That makes much more sense, and who am I to judge with a dog named Raffy?
I look over, expecting to see a little dog the size of Raffy. Instead, what I see is something the size of a small bear, a Newfoundland. “Wow . . . Muggles.”
“It’s so hard as the weather warms up to keep him cool, but since he’s a water breed, we bring him out as often as we can,” the woman explains. “Don’t worry, he really deserves his name.”
“No problem . . . Noah!”
Noah looks over, and when he sees the woman beside me, he’s already moving this way. When I point to Muggles, he scoops Raffy up protectively and comes over to join us even faster. “Hey,” he says questioningly, trying to get a feel for the situation.
“This is Muggles,” I start explaining.
“Beautiful dog.”
“This nice lady—”
“Stephanie.”
“Stephanie wanted to grab a picture of Raffy and me with Muggles. Can you take the picture?”
Noah nods, more relaxed as he takes Stephanie’s phone from her.
A minute later, we’ve got two women and two dogs posing for pictures together. Muggles is a sweetheart, sniffing noses with Raffy before plopping down contentedly in a big fluffball of dark fur.
My favorite picture has to be with me and Stephanie squatting on either side of Muggles with Raffy sitting on the ground between Muggles’ massive front paws, his chin thrust out like he’s full of piss and vinegar.
“Thanks so much,” Stephanie says when Noah hands her phone back. But now that she’s gotten her pictures, it’s like being that close to Noah and all his oozing sex appeal finally registers for Stephanie. “Oh . . . uhm . . . yeah, thanks. So are you two . . . friends? Or like dating or something?”
Noah meets my eyes over Stephanie’s head. I don’t know what to say to that. We’re definitely dating, but this is a follower, not family. We haven’t talked about that yet because going that type of public is a whole different thing. One Noah needs to be prepared for.
