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“No, the furry kind. Come on.” To avoid any awkwardness, I bolt from the car to pop the trunk. After clipping a treat pouch to my shorts, I grab the leash and the slip collar. Jackson stands there with his hands in his pockets.
“Here we go.” I grab the folder of paperwork. Glancing over the checklist, I breathe in and out, calming my nerves.
These never get easier for me, and while I can brace for heartache, I usually cry in the car afterwards. The dog usually snuggles me, which makes it better.
Now, I have a grumpy man with a ponytail who was repulsed when he thought I meant snuggling with him.
This has been a weird day.
He says nothing as we walk up to the house, his body inches from mine.
“Do you need me to hold anything?” he asks, his hand accidentally brushing against mine again. I stiffen, and he notices.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
It’s really not. It’s not normal to feel sparks, buzzes and flares when you touch a man there’s no chance you will ever be romantic with. That doesn’t happen.
We knock on the door, and a small woman in her mid-fifties opens the door. Her shoulders slump, and dark circles crest under her eyes. I hear high-pitched whining from inside, and while my stomach clenches at the sound, I step inside with the most comforting smile I can give.
“I’m Shiloh Abbott with Working Buddies’ rescue. This is Jackson, he’s shadowing me today.”
He lingers outside, and I wave him in.
The woman crosses her arms as we step inside. The house is tidy and bare, with mountains of cardboard boxes in the corner.
“I’m Carrie, pleasure to meet you. Let me get Koda. I crated him since he tends to charge open doors.”
“Not a problem,” I say.
She walks to the other room, and we stand there. I try to focus, but Jackson’s presence distracts me, jumbles my thoughts. It was a mistake to invite him, since dog rescue is my safe space, my comfort. The place I go to feel the most like me.
Jackson makes me squirm.
Nails scrape against the hardwood as a dog pulling on a leash like he’s dragging a sled comes around the corner. Carrie lets the leash slip and the dog charges, putting its front two paws on my chest and toppling me over.
11
Jackson
Igrab Shiloh before she falls over, as a huge German shepherd licks her chin.
My arm still loops around her back as I lean in. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her giggle sounds like music as the dog makes playing noises, jumping from side to side, the tail beating vigorously. The shepherd has tan and black fur and vibrates with puppy energy, sensing Shiloh is someone he can trust.
She gazes at me with her lips parted, so I rip my arms away. My cock pushes against the zipper of my jeans. Did I get aroused just by holding her?
“I am so sorry,” Carrie says, covering her mouth. “He has no manners. My dad never got him formal training. Hence this.”
She points to a ragged, large hole in the wall. Koda looks at it and back at us with pride.
“It’s okay,” Shiloh says, giggling, rubbing the dog’s ears. “He just needs some training.”
“He doesn’t bite or nothing. Jumps, obviously. Wants to smell every bush. Every. Bush.”
“Every smell is just so powerful,” Shiloh says in the dog’s face with a baby voice, giving the dog one last rub.
