“Given your apparent distaste for authority, I find it highly unlikely that you’re harboring any repressed student-teacher fantasies.”
“No?” I asked. “What sort of fantasies do you suppose I’m harboring?”
She cut me a scathing glare. “Something predictable, I’m sure.”
I shrugged. “Nothing wrong with the classics. And hey, if you’re volunteering, I could definitely get my hands on a Blizzards cheerleading uniform. I bet you’d silence a crowd dressed in it. ”
In her casual jeans and T-shirt, her honey-blond hair swept back from her face, showcasing big, almond-shaped green eyes, she was girl-next-door beautiful who, without the benefit of experience, I knew could become drop-dead gorgeous in a wink. And while it was apparent she’d be a total bombshell if she chose to get all dolled up, I was already certain I preferred this version of her: clean, composed, and natural with faint freckles dotting her nose that I found enticing. A first in my history with women. I didn’t usually fall for the difficult score or the effortless beauty.
I just couldn’t understand why. Maybe it was the attitude. Maybe it was the fact that she’d clearly checked me out then effortlessly shut me down, which frankly was both unusual and sexy as hell. Time would tell, and as far as I could figure, we’d be spending quite a bit of it together. Wearing her down might be just the distraction I needed to get through my community service. Plus it had the added bonus of getting me out of here faster.
Hazel opened a door at the end of the hall that led to a large storage area full of shelves stacked with containers. She stared at me, and I wondered if my thoughts were plastered on my face.
“At Rescue Granted, every dog is assessed upon admittance,” she said, stepping inside. “We specialize in crafting individualized rehabilitation plans that address everything from dietary needs to behavioral therapies.”
I followed her into the space, noticing how bins of toys, medicine, pet supplies, and dry and canned food were organized into categories with neat labels, the sort that came from a professional label maker, facing out and color-coded. There were also rows of boxes with names written on blue painter’s tape stuck to the side.
“I’m not going to end up in a crate with my own plan clipped to a collar, am I?” I asked.
“Only if you continue misbehaving.”
“I find that offensive,” I said with a scoff. “I’ve yet to misbehave.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” Hazel moved to a box labeled OLIVE. Rummaging around, she pulled out a blanket and a stainless steel bowl with bones on it. She picked up a bag of what appeared to be dried vegetables and meat, then strode over to the sink in the corner. As she rehydrated the food, the scent nearly made me gag, but I diligently watched her put together the meal, fascinated by how much attention she gave to even the simplest task.
I wondered if Hazel ever let her guard down—or if she even knew how. She seemed like the type who was incapable of relaxing, always bringing work home and always focused on everyone else’s needs rather than her own. I guess I was like her in that way, though I knew my teammates would disagree, assuming that when I left the locker room I left the game behind. But I lived and breathed and carried around the weight of what we could be—and should be—like my own personal albatross.
“Can you pass me those vitamins?” she asked, cocking her head toward the bottle perched on the edge of a shelf as she washed her hands.
I did as ordered, reading the label—glucosamine to improve joint flexibility and reduce pain and inflammation—and let loose a low whistle. “Better hope no one calls Face to Face on Olive.”
Hazel shot me a shrewd look, stealing the bottle from my grasp. “Joking about your mistakes won’t make them go away. But then, it’s obvious that’s why you were assigned to a dog shelter as punishment in the first place. It’s clear you need behavior modification,” she said, a hard edge to her voice.
Ouch. How in the hell was I supposed to respond to that? Kent had made a similar comment, but he was a hard-ass and my boss. Coming from Hazel, a stranger, the only thing I could do was deflect.
“I’m afraid shock collars are a fourth-date discussion, Hazel.”
“Right, like you’d ever make it that far.” She sprinkled the glucosamine powder over the raw food, draped some leashes hanging on hooks over her shoulder, then gestured for me to follow her through a door on the far side of the storage area to a sanitation station.
“Grab those,” she said, nodding to a Swiffer mop and a bucket filled to the brim with towels and cleaning supplies. “You’ll need to wear a protective suit, cover your shoes with booties, and put on the gloves I gave you. Wouldn’t want our industrial disinfectants to irritate those precious hands of yours.”
“Usually when I glove up, I bring my own. Extra large.” I winked, struggling to pull on the thick, rubberized material that was obviously not intended for the wide palms and long fingers required of professional athletes. “But isn’t this a bit overkill? I’m sure I could get by with an apron.”
“When it comes to the dogs’ safety and care, we always follow protocol,” she said. “You’ll only be responsible for cleaning the kennels designated for those dogs requiring specific rehabilitation and extra attention. The main kennels, isolation, and quarantine areas will be handled by one of my full-time staff members.”
She stared at me, as though expecting me to do something. After a moment, she sighed and said, “Come on, Mr. Lalonde. I thought you were supposed to be fast. Hop to and get dressed. I don’t have all day.”
What felt like an eternity later—I swore fitting my body into all this gear was more difficult than suiting up for game day—I joined Hazel in a room that had more in common with those fancy Montessori preschools that were all about gentle sensory stimulation and comfortable spaces than it did with an animal rescue.
“My first dorm room wasn’t this nice,” I said, glancing around at each kennel, which were outfitted with toys, indoor plants that blocked the view of the other dogs, and elevated beds. Though I noticed the metal frames were peeling and rusted in spots and the fluffy pillow tops did look a bit tattered and old. Tunes from various Disney animated movies serenaded from a beaten-up boom box on a shelf, and sunlight streamed through the windows.
Hazel unlocked a kennel with OLIVE printed on a sign above the door and slid in the bowl of food she’d prepared earlier. “With dogs that have experienced extreme abuse, trauma, or neglect, I’ve discovered that they respond better to treatment in spaces that offer a cozy respite from the tensions of shelter living. This design also provides a visual barrier to prevent barking. In addition, more natural light, fresher air, and less noise alleviates stress and anxiety.”
She spent the next several minutes explaining in detail each step on the checklist that I needed to accomplish and the method for doing so. And while I’d heard her instructions loud and clear, my focus was on the way her mouth formed the words.
After she’d finished, Hazel asked, “Questions?”
“Sounds simple enough,” I said, still gazing at the pouty curve of her bottom lip.
She narrowed her eyes at my blatant ogling but refrained from commenting. “Great. You’ve got an hour and a half to complete everything. Now it’s time for these pups’ afternoon play session,” she said, opening each kennel one by one—apart from Olive’s—and fastening a leash to each dog’s collar.
Hazel quickly introduced the gang—there was Waffles, the three-legged Westie; Toffee, the Scottish terrier that was missing most of his hair and part of his left ear; and Sausage and Beans, a pair of older dachshunds. I could only imagine what name she had given the dog waiting for her at home.
“I’ll take Foods You Eat after Binge Drinking for six hundred, Alex,” I said with a laugh.
“Clever. You’re not helping your image with that statement, by the way,” she said as the dogs tugged on their leashes.
“Come on, you’re going to tell me you’ve never once gotten a li
ttle wild? It’s not like I expect you to have majored in keg stands, but who hasn’t had a night or two they don’t recall? Or a morning after they regretted?”
“Me,” she said with a shrug. “Never been my thing.”
“Ever been a tiny bit tempted to get a little lost in the moment?” I asked.
“Getting lost in the moment is a politer way of saying totally out of control, and that’s not something that has ever appealed to me.”
Hazel’s expression shifted to something closed off, almost protective, and I wondered what had happened in her past that made structure and restraint her guiding principles. And if it was the reason she’d chosen to run a dog rehabilitation shelter. Otherwise, how did a woman who was so controlled, scheduled, and unruffled go into a profession that had to be full of highs and lows, triumphs and heartbreaks?
“And besides, I just think foods provide the best names for animals,” she said after a moment.
“That so?” I asked.
She nodded. “They’re cute, relatable, and hold universal appeal, and depending on the particular food chosen, it can highlight an animal’s personality or physical features. Plus, I love to eat . . .”
I chuckled. Didn’t we all?
“What’s the deal with Sausage and Beans?” I asked, observing the way they cowered and shivered behind her leg.
“Their owner passed away with no living family. They were stuck in the house for a week before someone found them.” She smiled down at them, as though the image of these two dogs left alone with a decomposing body wasn’t macabre as fuck. “They’re a bonded pair, so we keep them kenneled together due to their attachment issues. Anyway, I’m running behind. Please don’t go near Olive’s kennel—she’s very skittish and afraid of people as a result of the mistreatment she received during her time in a puppy mill.”
“You sure Olive didn’t escape?” I asked, glancing around the space that appeared uninhabited. What sort of dog was named Olive, anyway? An Italian Chihuahua? A supreme-pizza-adoring poodle with curly hair that rich old ladies preferred?
“She typically hides when humans are around, but you can sneak a glimpse of her over there.” Hazel pointed to the bed, which had a small lump beneath it, just the tip of a tail poking out from the side. “Need clarification on anything before I take these rascals outside?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t forget to abide by the checklist,” she said, like I was incapable of following rules. Then Hazel was gone, leaving me standing there in this ridiculous outfit with three vacant kennels, one terrified dog, and Disney’s greatest hits serenading me.
“What if I don’t want to whistle while I work?” I mumbled under my breath. I heard a faint rustle come from Olive’s kennel, but when I turned, the movement stopped. Interesting. “What if I don’t want to be here at all? What then, Olive?”
I waited a moment to see if the dog would crawl out from under the bed, but . . . nothing. I sighed. The sooner I got this over with, the sooner I could get out of here and move on with things that actually mattered, like salvaging my career.
I cleared out the first cage that belonged to Waffles, washing the back wall and concrete floor with a hose, humming along to the opening chords of “Poor Unfortunate Souls” from The Little Mermaid.
“I admit that on the field I am an asshole. They aren’t kidding when they call me, well, a prick. But catch me off the field, I’m really quite well-heeled. Handsome, oh so charming, and a prince!” I sang along—my version better, of course—as I wiped down the bed frame. So what if I was creating my own lyrics? It passed the time and kept my mind off the fact that I’d been benched to pooper-scooper.
I heard another rustling sound, and I glanced again at Olive’s kennel. Though she was still hidden under the bed, I noticed she’d moved closer to the door and that her tail was sticking out a little farther, revealing a white tip framed by black fur. It wasn’t full-on wagging, but it wasn’t stock-still anymore either.
Huh. Maybe the dog wasn’t as antihuman as Hazel believed. Or maybe Olive liked my voice—I’d been told on more than one occasion that it had the power to talk any woman into bed. Talking little Olive out from under hers would be a first, but I was up to the challenge.
I cleared out the other cages and sprayed them down, singing louder and with more gusto. I even added some flare, pulling all my signature moves on the hose I held. When I pretended to fly on a magic carpet with a towel during my rendition of “A Whole New World,” a small freckled muzzle peeked out from under the bed and stayed there.
All right. Now I’m getting somewhere, I thought, pumping a fist in the air. They didn’t call me FIGJAM for nothing.
I prepared the disinfectant the way Hazel had described, splashed the solution over the floors, and waited a minute for it to degermify the concrete. As I pushed the mop back and forth, the boom box switched again, the opening lament of Gaston’s ballad ringing loud and clear. Ha, I’d always liked this one.
“No one cleans like Lalonde, takes big leaps like Lalonde,” I belted out, doing a shimmy. “In a football game no one scores points like Lalonde.”
“What in the hell is going on here?”
I jolted at Hazel’s voice and spun around. She looked more flabbergasted than annoyed, her hair ruffled from the wind. I grinned and said, “Wooing a lady, obviously.” If I was going to be caught acting like an idiot, I might as well own it.
“Makes a mental note to add ‘no singing while mopping’ to the checklist for next time,” she muttered to herself.
“Where’s the smorgasbord?” I asked, referring to the dogs Hazel had taken out.
“They’re with Donna, my volunteer who works in the yard. She helps them with socializing,” she said, eyeing me up and down like I could benefit from some socializing myself. “And why am I not surprised that you’re under the impression that the villain is the hero of Beauty and the Beast?”
“Now, Hazel, I’ll stop you right there, because I know what you’re thinking,” I said in my best Gaston impersonation.
She raised an eyebrow. “I seriously doubt that.”
“You’re thinking, ‘Chris isn’t like Gaston at all. There’s something sweet and almost kind about him . . .’ And, Hazel? You’d be correct in that assessment. I’m absolutely a beast—”
“If you attach ‘in bed’ to the end of that sentence, I might hurl on this floor and ruin all your efforts,” she said in the same unimpressed tone she’d sported all afternoon. But a smile had spread across her face, a real, genuine smile that lit up her features. Lord hell, she was stunning. I definitely needed to experience more of those smiles in the future.
“Be honest, Hazel,” I said. “We may have just met, but don’t deny that you haven’t at least considered what it’d be like to take a tumble in the sheets with me.”
“Yeah, that was before I heard you sing.” She held my gaze a beat too long, as though she was also experiencing this unexplainable, undeniable tug toward me. But then she blinked, cleared her throat, and glanced over my shoulder, her eyes growing as wide as my wingspan. “What the . . . ?”
I followed her gaze, which was fixated on Olive’s kennel. Well, I’ll be damned. The small freckled muzzle that had been poking out before was now an entire head with floppy ears and big brown eyes. As it turned out, Olive wasn’t an Italian Chihuahua or a supreme-pizza-adoring poodle. She was a tricolor cavalier King Charles spaniel that was so cute she should be a stuffed animal. Or showcased on the cover of a calendar. The tip of her tail was even wagging.
“I told you I was wooing a lady,” I said, feeling a sense of pride and true accomplishment that I hadn’t felt in far too long. It wasn’t like I’d cured cancer, but I was damn impressed with myself, especially considering my total lack of ability to relate to members of the canine family. “Olive happens to love my singing.”
Hazel shook her head, as if in awe. “No, you don’t understand. I’ve been trying to get her to crawl out from under the comfort
of her safe place for weeks now, but to no avail,” she said. “Your charms are lost on me, Lalonde, but apparently not everyone is immune.”
“Maybe I just need to discover the perfect song for you,” I said, thinking I might win Hazel over yet.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hazel
“Don’t worry, Meatball, we’re going to find the right fit for you,” I said, scratching my favorite pit bull under his chin, my heart cracking at the trusting innocence in his eyes.
I let Meaty back into his kennel in the shelter’s main housing section. I hated the way his ears drooped and his head sagged. Like he knew his adoption had gotten to the final stages and had fallen through. Again.
I checked in on the other pups, topping off water bowls and giving belly rubs, and then strolled into the office I shared with Penny, my assistant-slash-best friend. She was currently in a battle with Bertha, the copy machine. The phrase “It’s all Greek to me” held a special, very literal place in my friendship with Penny, and based on the Greek words flying out of her mouth, she was losing the fight. Over the years, I’d learned she only ever used her native tongue when she was either incredibly pissed off or incredibly happy.
“Need some help?” I asked, tossing Meatball’s folder onto my desk.
“I swear this pile of junk eats more paper than it prints,” she said, tugging on an adoption form stuck in the bypass tray. Penny stepped away from the machine and blew strands of dark, curly hair out of her eyes in frustration, gesturing for me to give it a shot.
Laughing, I walked over and manually turned the knob to remove the jammed paper. “How many times have I told you that you need to be gentle with old Bertha? She’s the only copier we own, so we gotta make her last.”
Rescuing the Receiver Page 4