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“I’m not ama’am. Ma’ams have their shit together.” She lets out a soft growl, and I try not to think about how cute the sound is. “Sorry, sorry. I’m messing this up.” Her voice lowers, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Get a hold of yourself.”
I don’t know what to make of this woman. For some reason, I feel the urge to circle around the counter and rub a reassuring hand over her back.
Since when did I become the comforting type?
Instead, I keep my voice level and firm, the way I would with a stressed animal.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
The pretty customer blinks, raising her gaze enough to meet mine again. In the bright fluorescent light, I catch a hint of green just around her pupils.
“The beginning. Okay. Like a story. I can do that.” She breaths in deep, as if settling herself, then starts the tale, almost rapid-fire with her words. “Yesterday, I was running. I’ve been doing that more lately because…well, that’s not important. So, I was running. And I heard this sound. I don’t wear headphones when I run. It’s not safe. You should always be aware of your surroundings.” She makes a wide gesture with her arms as if Kim and I are students in a self-defense class and she’s the instructor. “The noise made me stop. Then I heard it again. Like a whining. It was coming from a side street, so I walked towards it. The alley was filthy. Mud everywhere. But, you know, it’s New Orleans. Everything is wet all the time. And New York wasn’t pristine by any means. So, dirty street, no big deal, right? Then I saw her.”
The woman pauses, gaze distracted, as if she’s replaying the memory, not seeing me or the shelter’s waiting room anymore.
“Saw who?” Apparently, the story has Kim captivated because the redhead leans forward, voice hushed as she asks the question.
The woman blinks, coming back to us. “My dog. Well, I guess she’s not technicallymine. Yet. In a legal sense.” The blonde places a piece of paper she’s been clutching on the counter, smoothing it flat.
An adoption form.
“But she’s mine in asoulfulsense. I know she is. I found her. Or she found me.” The customer worries her bottom lip. “She was in bad shape. Which is why I called 9-1-1. Because I didn’t know what else to do. How to help her. But I know now. I want to take her home with me.”
As I pick up the application, my eyes seek out the first line for some vital information.
Paige Herbert.
“Paige?”
She nods and gifts me with half a smile. The curve of those perfectly-shaped lips sends a warning shot through me. Suddenly, I realize why she seems familiar.
I doubt I’ve ever met this particular girl before, but I’ve met her type. Dealt with them all through grade school. The Paige Herberts of the world—pale, blonde, pretty—are used to getting their way. Teachers give them A’s for showing up and smiling. Boys trip over themselves to carry their lunch trays. Everyone jockeys to sit next to them on the bus, and in class, and at the lunch table.
The rare times those girls took notice of me, their noses wrinkled, and their mouths sneered. They’d whispered behind their hands to friends and giggled as their mascara lashed eyes flicked my way.
When I was a kid, the spoiled rich guys did their best to break me down physically, but it was the pampered blonde girls that messed with my psyche.
As an adult, I’ve done a good job avoiding Paige Herbert’s kind.
It’s in my best interest to get things figured out and send her on her way.
“What did the dog look like?” As far as I know, three dogs were picked up yesterday. My guess is she’s looking for the Pomeranian. After a bath, the thing was pretty cute, but those small dogs come with huge attitudes.
“Like I was saying. She’s got these huge brown eyes that just carve out your heart. And she’s this wonderful Halloween tie-dye color.” The woman, Paige, stares at me with expectation, as if what she just said makes any sort of sense.
“So…pretty fluffy? About this big?” I use my hands to indicate something the size of a basketball.
Paige’s light eyebrows dip down as her mouth pinches. “What? No. Her hair is short. And she’s at least this tall.” When she steps back from the counter, her hand hovers at mid-thigh.
I wish she hadn’t done that.
Our counters are tall, about chest-high on most people, to keep dogs that get loose from jumping over them. Now that Paige stands far enough away to indicate the size of the dog, I get a full view of her body.
She’s wearing those stretchy exercise clothes that cling to every curve. And hell, does she have some nice curves.
Before I can linger too long on the peaks and valleys of her luscious hips and chest, I tear my eyes away and pretend to read over her application while forcing my mind back to dogs.
The only one that came in yesterday that even remotely fits her description is a pit bull, which is not what I would’ve guessed. That dog was pretty beat up. Cuts and scratches littered its brindle coat…
