Must Love Dogs...and Hockey

by Kelly Jamieson

  “True.”

  “I’d pay well.”

  This piques my interest. Little does he know, but I’m in debt up to my formerly well-groomed eyebrows. But still…“What if I took off with your dog and your money and you never saw me again?”

  “I wouldn’t be much worse off,” he says dryly.

  “Ha.” I play with Otis’s funny ears. “How much?”

  “How much what? Pay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Would you come to my place and look after him? Or take him home with you?”

  “Well, since you’re obviously extremely trusting and naïve, I’ll point out that letting a total stranger have access to your home is probably not wise.”

  He rolls his eyes at the “trusting and naïve” comment.

  “So I would look after him at my place.”

  “Okay. Five hundred dollars?”

  I gasp. “You’re kidding me.”

  He lifts his hands.

  “For one night?”

  “Sure. Except I won’t be back until late Wednesday, like really late, so it would be three nights. Five hundred a night.”

  Holy shit. That would be fifteen hundred dollars. Is this guy for real?

  I study him through narrowed eyes. He’s holding my gaze and seems honest. “Cash.”

  “Sure. I can drop him off tomorrow morning.”

  This is all weird. The guy can’t keep his dog under control. Except it’s not even his dog. And he’s kind of a flirty, cocky ass.

  But watching him with the dog…he’s gentle, if a little awkward. And he’s willing to pay big bucks to have the dog looked after.

  I’m trying to see the downside to this. Looking after a pup isn’t that much work. It’s not like I have much else going on. If I get the money up front, the worst thing that would happen is Easton doesn’t come back for the dog and I’d have to deal with it. “Okay. Deal.”

  He lifts his arms in the air. “Yes!”

  I grin.

  “It doesn’t put me in a good bargaining position,” he says. “But I was desperate.”

  So am I. “Well, worry no more. I’ll take good care of Otis.”

  “Give me your address.” He pulls out his phone.

  I hesitate. Giving my address to a stranger doesn’t seem very smart. Would it be wiser for me to go to his place? I gnaw briefly on my bottom lip. “Maybe I should pick him up.”

  “Okay.”

  I remove my phone from the pocket in my leggings and he gives me his address. His place is only a few blocks away, on Riverside Boulevard. Given the address, I’m pretty sure his apartment is a lot nicer than mine. Maybe he really does have fifteen hundred bucks to spare.

  “And your name,” he adds, waiting.

  “Right.” I shake my head. “It’s Lilly. Lilly Evans.”

  I give him my phone number in case anything changes, which wouldn’t surprise me, because the way my luck is going that could easily happen. Let’s just say I won’t be going out and buying new shoes before I have that cash in my broke little hands.

  “Can you pick him up around eight-thirty?” Easton pockets his phone.

  “Yes. That’s fine. You can give me all the instructions.”

  “Ha. Like I have any instructions for you. I had to google how often to feed him.”

  I bite my lip on a smile. “Oh.” I stand. “Okay, Lola, let’s finish our walk.”

  “Okay.” He stands too, still gripping the handle of Otis’s leash. “See you in the morning, Lilly.”

  Otis strains at the leash, trying to follow us, apparently enamored of Lola, or maybe both of us, as we walk away from them. I guess that’s good if I’m going to look after him. Easton’s a bit of a jackass and Otis is not well behaved, but…fifteen hundred bucks. Okay!

  Chapter 3

  Easton

  Lilly arrives promptly at eight-thirty. That’s a good sign.

  I may be crazy turning the dog over to a stranger. I could have paid for him to go to a kennel while I was gone and it would have been cheaper, but poor Otis. He’s kind of neurotic. I don’t know what happened in his past life, but obviously whoever owned him didn’t care much about him. He loves me and he went crazy for Lilly, but he’s not so good around other dogs and even other people, so I just couldn’t imagine locking him up in a cage for three days.

  “Hi,” Lilly says cheerfully as I open my door.

  Today she’s wearing jeans and a loose navy sweater. Her hair is down instead of in a ponytail and I can see the rich red highlights in the wavy dark brown strands falling around her face and shoulders. Long eyelashes frame dark indigo blue eyes. Her cheekbones are high and sharp and her chin a little pointy, and damn, she’s really, really pretty.

  I noticed that yesterday, hell yeah. But that wasn’t why I asked her to look after Otis. I asked because she clearly loves dogs and has a kind, engaging way about her. And Otis liked her.

  She bends down to greet Otis, and his stubby tail shakes. He remembers her. He immediately lies down at her feet and rolls onto his back.

  “Aren’t you a good boy,” she croons, rubbing his white chest. “Such a good boy.”

  “I gotta be honest, he’s not very good.” I roll my eyes. “Yesterday I spent half an hour chasing him up and down the hall when he escaped from my apartment. So make sure he doesn’t get out, because he doesn’t know his new name yet, and he sure as hell doesn’t respond to ‘come.’ ”

  “His new name?”

  “I don’t know his real name,” I confess. “So I named him Otis.”

  “Okay, noted.”

  “Also, he, uh, has a lot of accidents.”

  “Great.” She straightens and her warm smile disappears as she faces me. Damn. Clearly she likes Otis better than she likes me. “What else do I need to know?”

  I hand over the envelope full of cash I made a fast trip to the bank for yesterday, and go through his food, treats, and bathroom routines, such as I know them. “I bought him a kennel,” I tell her. “But I have to warn you, he doesn’t like it. I tried to get him to sleep in there and it didn’t go well, so he’s been sleeping on my bed.”

  “Yikes. He seems pretty attached to you.”

  “Here’s his stuff.” I nudge the bag on the floor with the toe of my shoe. “Food and water bowls.” I tell her how much I’ve been feeding him and when. “Also some treats and toys and a bunch of poop bags.” I had to go out to a pet store and buy a shit ton of stuff for this dog.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says gravely, but her eyes twinkle.

  I scrunch up my face. “Yeah. I don’t really like picking up dog poop, but I guess you’re supposed to do that.”

  “Yes.” She nods seriously. “I hate it when people don’t pick up after their dogs.”

  “Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands. “Thanks for doing this.”

  I’m actually nervous about leaving the damn pooch.

  As if sensing that, Lilly says, “He’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll walk out with you.”

  Lilly attaches the leash to Otis’s collar and we head out.

  When Otis balks at the elevator, I pick him up. “He doesn’t like elevators.”

  “Oh. Okay, good to know.”

  Outside, Otis heads straight to a fire hydrant to sniff around and lift his leg. Lilly starts down the sidewalk in the direction of the park where we “met” yesterday. Otis plants his paws on the sidewalk, not wanting to leave.

  “You should go back in,” Lilly says with a sympathetic rub of Otis’s ears. “It’s okay, Otis. I’ll take good care of you.”

  “He barely knows me,” I mutter. How can he be so attached in a matter of days? This is nuts. I crouch down to rub his head. “I’ll be back soon, buddy. Lilly will take good care of y
ou.”

  What has my life become? I smother an eye roll as I straighten, ignoring Otis’s sad whining.

  Lilly flashes a breezy smile. “Don’t worry about him! We’ll be fine. You go do your business, or whatever.” She waves me off.

  Business. Right. “Okay, thanks. I may text you to check in.”

  “Any time!”

  I turn and walk back into my building just as Otis throws back his head to howl.

  I stop and close my eyes. I can’t handle this. Don’t go back out.

  I head to the elevators, the door closing out the sounds of Otis’s displeasure. Jesus.

  Our road trip is a short one, first Tampa Bay then Miami. We get there in time for a nap for those of us who still do that. I’m one of them, so I head to my room to crash.

  I spot a woman walking a poodle in the hotel lobby. Huh.

  “I could’ve brought Otis,” I say in the elevator. Luckily, there’s no one else there. I’m talking to Bryce.

  He was my big brother, the one I talked to all the time, about everything. We were barely two years apart in age and we’d done everything together our whole lives, including playing hockey. After he died, I found myself talking to him in my head, and then sometimes out loud, when I was alone in a hotel room on a road trip or when I’d pissed off one of my teammates or when I’d screwed up a play.

  I walk down the hall to my room and let myself in, tossing my bag on the bed.

  He’s dead. I know it. But for some reason, believing he hears what I’m saying helps. It’s helped from the day I sat there holding him in my arms, praying someone would get there to help us before he died, telling him everything was going to be okay when I was fucking terrified out of my mind that it wasn’t. That it would never be okay again. I kept talking to him when they finally got him into an ambulance, but I couldn’t go with him because too many other guys were hurt. So I talked to him in my head until I got to the hospital myself and found out I’d never talk to him again. And I keep talking to him.

  Now, I laugh thinking about bringing Otis on the plane. “Coach hates me enough already, I can only imagine what a meltdown he’d have if I tried to bring a dog on a road trip.”

  Yeah, I’m kind of nuts, but the idea of giving Coach a heart attack over a dog strangely appeals to me.

  “We’ve had dad trips,” I say, still talking aloud as I pull some clothes out of my bag. “Guys got to bring their dads, and later this year we’re having a mom trip for the first time ever. I don’t have a dad and can’t bring my mom. I should be able to bring my dog. Why not? It’d be cool.”

  I discover that the hotel actually has a gourmet room service menu for pets, which cracks me up, as well as special treats like rawhide bones, beds, doggie pick up bags and a pet-walking service. Jeez. Maybe I should move into a hotel in New York.

  What am I thinking? I’m not keeping Otis. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with him if I can’t find his owner, but I definitely can’t keep him. I don’t know anything about dogs.

  I hope he’s okay.

  I resist the urge to text Lilly already, and I crawl into the king-size bed with silky-soft sheets and close my eyes for my game day nap.

  Now I’m thinking about Lilly. Hell yeah, I noticed how attractive she is when we met in the park yesterday, but I was more concerned about whether she or her dog were hurt. As she walked away, sure I watched her long, lean legs and tight little ass, her ponytail swinging briskly. But after seeing her this morning, now I’m thinking about her full, soft mouth and big dark blue eyes with that amazing fringe of lashes. I’m thinking about the smile she gave Otis—sweet, warm, and so goddamn appealing.

  I know this whole thing is crazy, but for some reason I trust her. I might be a little concerned about Otis while I’m away, but honestly, I’m more worried about how Lilly’s going to cope with him. He’s got a lot of puppy energy and no manners whatsoever.

  Lilly

  This dog is going to kill me.

  He’s only peed on the floor once, thankfully. But when he wants to play, there’s no stopping him. He’s put a hole in my favorite leggings with his teeth, chewed up one of my socks, and snagged a good sweater. I’ve taken him for three walks today and it’s not even dinnertime.

  Finally, he’s asleep on the floor in the living room and I collapse onto the couch. Maybe he’ll let me watch a TV show. Or make dinner. Carlin will be home soon. I guess it’s not fair to ask her to watch him while I take a break, since I’m the one who signed up for this.

  “I’m stuck with you, Otis,” I murmur.

  I felt so bad when I brought him home yesterday, when he started howling because I was taking him away from Easton. He’s definitely attached.

  Aw. Damn, he’s cute. Look at him sleeping, all sweet and relaxed and quiet, his nose between his paws, his scrunchy face all adorable. I sigh.

  As I watch him, he stretches, paws around to find his stuffy and pull it closer, then rolls onto his side.

  Oh my God, that is the cutest thing ever.

  The stuffy is a little Frenchie dog that looks just like him. It appears brand new, but he loves it.

  My heart!

  I turn on the TV and flick through the channels, landing on The Ellen DeGeneres Show. I love Ellen. I settle myself into the couch and watch, hoping that Otis stays sleeping a little longer.

  No such luck.

  As soon as Carlin turns her key in the lock, Otis leaps up and barks.

  “Shhh!” I jump up too. “You don’t want to get us evicted, do you?”

  Pets are allowed in our building, but I know Mrs. Fernsby next door won’t hesitate to complain if he’s too loud. She complained about my sneezing last time I had a cold. She complained we left our clothes in the dryer too long. She’s complained about our “overnight guests.” She complained because she thought we were smoking marijuana. We weren’t, though, and I think she was disappointed.

  Carlin hasn’t met Otis yet, although I gave her a heads-up that he was coming to stay for a couple of days. She likes dogs, luckily.

  Otis is afraid of her, though, and he won’t stop barking at her, all four little paws lifting off the floor with each yap as he backs away from her.

  Oh my God, this dog has issues.

  Carlin gets down on the floor. “Hey, cutie. Don’t bark, okay? I’m Carlin. I live here.”

  Yes, yes, we know he doesn’t understand us, but come on, everyone talks to their dog.

  Eventually he calms down, and inches closer to her on his belly. She stretches her hand out palm down so he can sniff her. He seems somewhat reassured.

  “Wow, sorry,” I tell her. “He’s a little neurotic. Easton says he’s not very well trained.”

  “Easton, the handsome and rich dog owner.”

  “Handsome, rich, and cocky-ass dog owner.”

  She gives me an amused look. “You said he apologized.”

  “Yes,” I grudgingly admit.

  “And look how things turned out. He’s paying you big bucks to look after him.”

  “True. I have fifteen hundred dollars in my purse. And some of that is for you.”

  “Aw. You don’t have to pay me back yet. Just don’t go buy a pair of Jimmy Choos or I’ll be pissed.”

  “What if they were on sale?”

  “Lilly!”

  “I’m kidding!” My life with Jimmy Choos and designer clothes is over.

  “I’m gonna change.” Carlin stands. She’s wearing the scrubs she always wears to her job as a dental hygienist. “Are you home for dinner?”

  “Of course. As if I’d go out and leave you with Otis.”

  “Right. Okay, I’m making tacos.”

  “Excellent.”

  Otis is awake now and demanding to play again. I throw his ball for him to fetch. Lucki
ly our living room is long, so he gets a bit of a run, but he’d probably rather play in the park. Welp, I’ll take him for a fourth walk after dinner.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, I take Otis to see my grandma. We’re pretty close. When I moved to New York for college, she was my only family member here, so we saw each other fairly often. I think she was supposed to be looking out for me, but in the end, I’m the one looking out for her.

  Only, not as well as I should.

  Grammy’s in her late seventies. She’s still pretty sharp, but arthritis has really impaired her mobility in the last year or so, and she’s in a wheelchair now. She lives in a care home not far from where I live, and I think she’ll enjoy a visit from Otis. He’s not exactly into meeting new people, but hopefully he’ll be okay with Grammy.

  It’s a nice day for a walk and Otis enjoys all the sniffs along the way. Finally we arrive at the home.

  “Hi, Julie,” I greet the receptionist when I enter.

  “Hi!” She peers over the counter. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Otis. I thought Grammy would enjoy a visit from him.”

  “We need to see proof he’s had all his shots,” Julie says.

  Shit. “What? I don’t have that with me. I’m just looking after him for a friend.”

  She studies Otis, bites her lip, and looks around. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll let it go this time. But next time make sure you bring the papers.”

  “Thank you!”

  Grammy’s room is on the third floor so I head to the elevators and push the up button. Otis is making funny noises in his throat and trying to back away. I grip the leash tighter. “It’s okay, little buddy.”

  The doors open and I step forward and tug the leash. Otis won’t budge.

  Oh right. He doesn’t like elevators.

  People get off, and others get on, and I scramble to grab Otis and get inside before the doors close.

  “What floor?” asks a man with an amused look.

  “Three, please. Thank you.”

  The doors slide closed and Otis wraps his front legs around my neck in a vise, his nose tucked down under my chin. He’s shaking.