Once they were inside the dog portion of the shelter, he looked into each dog’s kennel. Low whines and barks echoed in the cavernous room, bouncing off the concrete floors. Didn’t blame them. If he were a dog, he’d whine about being here too.
A boxer stood on his hind legs while looking up at Reece with sad eyes. The golden retriever in the pen next to him whimpered and sighed as he laid his head on his paws. This was like a sad ASPCA commercial. All it needed was that depressing Sarah McLachlan song playing in the background.
“So which one am I taking home?” The thought of a big dog didn’t repulse him too much. A German shepherd. Or maybe a Doberman. He could ride shotgun in the passenger seat with the windows down. That would be badass. Maybe fostering a dog wouldn’t be too bad.
“Your foster is right down here,” Kurt said as he led Reece and Sloane down the walkway. The shelter was a maze of kennels, rows upon rows of dogs in this cold, sterile environment. Each pen was filled with one dog, sometimes two. Lab mixes, some pits, and a Great Dane with drool slicking the floor.
They finally made their way to the end of the row, and Reece peered into the cage. At first, he didn’t see a dog and thought maybe luck was on his side and that someone was in the process of adopting it. But then a small yip came from the far corner.
“Reece, meet Peaches.”
Reece stared down at the dog. Could it even be classified as a dog if it weighed less than ten pounds? The brown thing wearing a pink sweater looked more like a rat than anything. Based on the color choice, he assumed the rat-dog-whatever was a girl. She jumped up on her hind legs, and a river of pee coated the floor. Reece took a large step back, making sure to avoid the splash zone of this golden shower.
He glanced at her description tethered to the chain-link kennel. Peaches was a Pomeranian-and-Yorkie mix. Or what the laminated sheet labeled as Yoranian. Sounded like an element on the periodic table.
“There has to be a mistake. This is the only dog that needs fostering right now?”
“Peaches . . . ,” Kurt trailed off, looking sheepish. “She has a problem with other dogs. With the newest influx of dogs, we just don’t have room to keep her in a kennel all by herself.”
Sloane patted Reece’s shoulder. “Aw, she’s just like you, Reece. Doesn’t play well with others.”
Kurt looked between Reece and Sloane, probably trying to piece together why Reece was barely holding it together. “If you have other dogs at home, this might not be the right fit.”
Reece’s jaw clenched. “Won’t be a problem.”
“I’ll go grab the box that came with her. She has a few favorite outfits.”
“Outfits,” Reece repeated. “She wears . . . clothes?” This had to be a joke.
“Yes, the previous owner said she liked to pick out her own outfit every morning.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. He was fine with a big dog. A manly dog. But this? A dog that played pretty, pretty princess? This crossed so many lines he was practically in an alternate dimension right now. Reece didn’t have time for bows and ribbons and whatever else this high-maintenance thing required.
Kurt came back a minute later with a small box full of miniature outfits, most of them sparkly. This was a hard no. The box would be meeting the dumpster as soon as he had a moment alone.
“Is there going to be a problem?” Sloane arched a brow.
Job. Chief Richards. Not getting railroaded into transferring to a zero-action station. Sloane had him by the balls, and they both knew it. Fine. He needed to take care of a foo-foo dog with the name of a fruit for a few weeks? So be it.
He grabbed the box from Kurt. “No problem at all.”
Chapter Seven
Reece called Jake as soon as he dropped off Sloane at her apartment, and then he went directly home. He threw his keys, the box of clothes, and the bag of dog food on the counter and stared down at Peaches. The mutt looked up at him, tail wagging.
“What the hell do I do with you?”
What was he supposed to do?
She barked at him. That tiny face eyed him like he was the biggest screwup foster-dog parent she’d ever known. He most likely was.
“Of course. I’ll take that monstrosity of an outfit off you.” He reached for the pink abomination Peaches wore. The dog was probably embarrassed to be wearing a sweater. He was embarrassed on her account.
He went to pull it off, but Peaches let out a low growl. Reece didn’t know much about dogs, but he did know to back off when a dog growled. She might be tiny, but she did have teeth.
He backed up and put his hands up. If she wanted to look like a fool, so be it. Who was he to judge?
He racked his brain and glanced at the clock. Kurt said Peaches ate at six sharp. He had forty minutes. “You need to go potty?” It sounded like he was talking to a toddler.
He’d tried getting her to do her business for fifteen minutes before they’d entered the apartment, with no luck.
The dog yipped. Which he took as a pretty clear Screw off.
“Fine. Go ahead and make yourself at home.” He didn’t know the first thing about introducing a dog to a house. Was he supposed to give her a tour like she was a houseguest? Here’s the bathroom. Here’s the kitchen and the food you’re not allowed to touch.
Peaches took it upon herself to trot around the living room. He let out a deep breath. Nothing left to do but settle into their new arrangement.
“She thinks she won this, but Sloane has another think coming.”
Peaches barked in response.
“You’re on her side? Really? Come on. The woman is ridiculous.”
Peaches decided it was time to stretch her legs, and he winced as her nails scraped along his wood floors.
“Man, you’re brutal.” He was having a conversation with a dog. Maybe he was starting to crack. He needed to hold it together for at least four more weeks, and then he’d be done with all this mess.
He sank down to the couch and grabbed a Men’s Fitness magazine from the coffee table, waiting for his reinforcements to show up. Jake and Hollywood would know what to do. He cracked open the magazine while Peaches pranced around the living room. His mom had gotten him a subscription last Christmas, and even if he felt ridiculous reading this magazine, it did have good workout tips. He flipped through a few pages and found an article on building up deltoid muscles. He folded the magazine in half and had just started to read when Peaches let out a sharp yip and began to shake.
“What?”
The dog backed away slowly, looking like she was ready to bolt at any second. Was this a sign she needed to finally relieve herself? He set down the magazine and pulled out his phone to check online to see what dogs could get spooked by. But as soon as Reece set down the magazine, Peaches stopped shaking.
Okay, maybe this was a sign of abuse? Had someone hit her with a rolled-up magazine? The thought made Reece want to deck whoever would do that to an animal.
He lifted it up again, and she let out a high-pitched howl.
“Seriously, you’re afraid of magazines?”
He lifted up another magazine from the coffee table, and she didn’t react.
Huh.
He picked up the fitness magazine again, unfolded it, and looked at the page. A full spread of Blake Shelton. He turned the magazine around for Peaches to see, and she went frantic again, high-pitched yowls echoing in his apartment.
He chuckled. “Don’t worry, girl. I don’t see the appeal either.”
He closed up the magazine, and Peaches settled down, her shaking subsiding. He’d heard about animals having phobias, had seen the cat with the pickle videos online, but he’d never heard of an animal being terrified of a specific person.
Reece sat down on the couch and grabbed for the remote, and Peaches jumped up next to him.
“That’s a hard no, sweetheart. You’re stuck on floor duty.” He scooped her up and gently set her down on the ground. The last thing he wanted was the dog crapping on
his leather couch.
The dog stared at him with those big brown eyes. Damn it, she looked pathetic. He turned his attention to the TV and flipped through the channels, hoping to catch the end of the Seahawks game. He’d missed most of it since he and Sloane had spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning kennels and walking the other dogs at the shelter. He knew that she was mainly happy because she got satisfaction out of seeing him out of his element, but he had to admit it’d been nice to be civil for once. Even at his expense.
The dog barked again.
“Not happening. I have the willpower of a Jedi master. Your snooty little yip does nothing for my resolve.” This was it. He might have finally gone crazy because he was talking to her like she understood.
Just as she sat back on her haunches, ready to make another attempt at getting up on the couch, Reece opened the magazine to the picture of Blake. Peaches immediately backed off and hid under the end table on the opposite side of the couch.
Nice. Who needed official dog training when he had a picture of a celebrity?
Just then, the doorbell rang.
He shot the dog a look. “Don’t you even think about it.” And then he got up from the couch and moved to the door. Finally, the cavalry was here.
Jake and Hollywood stood in his doorway, six-packs of beer in their hands.
Peaches let out a medley of barks and yips, dancing on her hind legs.
“Whoa, man.” Hollywood backed up.
“Dude. It’s just a dog.” Albeit an ugly one currently wearing a tutu-sweater deal, but he didn’t need to explain that to the guys.
“One that’s peeing all over your floor and Jake’s shoes,” Hollywood said as he and Jake stepped into the entryway. “And what the hell is she wearing? Did you dress her up?”
Jake let out a low grunt and moved to the kitchen to grab a paper towel. He wiped off his shoe. “Does this mean that Sloane has officially started her favors?”
“Yep.” Reece cracked open a beer and took a deep pull. “Apparently I am on babysitting duty until she gets adopted. The dog, not Sloane.” He strode into the kitchen, opened up the cabinet under the sink, and motioned for Jake to drop the dirty paper towels in there.
“Aw, Reece is a dad. Who would have ever thought that would happen?” Hollywood said.
He narrowed his eyes at Hollywood. “Temporary. This is not a long-term arrangement,” Reece insisted.
“Sure. Whatever you say, man. We’re here to watch the game, not judge,” Jake said. He bent down to scratch the dog’s head. “Poor Reece doesn’t know what he got himself into.”
Both Reece and Hollywood stared at Jake.
“What? I like dogs. That’s not an abnormal thing,” Jake said. “Plus, I find it hilarious that Sloane got the best of you.”
“She did not,” Reece said.
They both looked at him.
“Fine. She did. I don’t even know how to take care of myself, let alone a princess dog.”
“What are you going to do with this dog for . . . How long do you have this thing?” Hollywood asked.
“Who knows? They said a typical amount of time is three weeks. I’ve been given dog food and a leash. I figure it can’t be too hard to take care of something that weighs less than a sack of flour.”
They both stared.
“What?”
“Have you ever taken care of anything before?” Hollywood asked, cracking open a beer and making his way to the couch. Reece flipped to the game, just in time for kickoff.
“I used to have a pet fish.” The fish didn’t last long. In fact, Reece could still recall walking into his room after having Michelangelo for only a few days to find the fish belly-up. His mom had told him that he was sleeping.
“A fish. What are you going to do when you’re on shift?” Jake asked.
“Sloane already thought of that. Went through my mom and set up an arrangement.”
Jake let out a low whistle. “I’m impressed.”
“Is it weird I find that incredibly hot?” Hollywood asked.
Reece and Jake both said yes at the same time.
“It’s pretty straightforward. You feed it. You take it to the bathroom. You give it love and attention,” Jake said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Plus, that means you have an excuse to call up Sloane if you have an issue,” Hollywood said.
“Why would I do that?”
“She might have Smurf hair, but she’s bangin’,” Hollywood said.
“If one can look past her being a malevolent dictator, then sure.”
“Come on. You’re telling me she’s never been part of your spank-bank material?”
Reece had the sudden urge to deck Hollywood in the face. Sure, Reece had pictured Sloane . . . many times. But his friends didn’t need to know about that. “I’m going to ignore that you used that term. What are you, twelve?”
“I’m moving up in the world. Last week you asked if I had a pacifier.”
Sloane was a few years younger than Reece. They’d known each other since childhood. In fact, when they were younger, they could even tolerate being in the same room with each other. He’d never told Jake, but when they were in high school, he’d had a thing for Sloane. He’d had a girlfriend at the time, so he could never act on anything, and then by the time his relationship with Amber had crashed and burned, the little faith he’d had in connecting with the opposite sex had evaporated.
And then late last year, they’d happened to meet up at a bar when Sloane’s friends had all gone home, and Jake had left to go take care of Bailey. Sloane had been sitting at the bar nursing a drink, wearing red stilettos that matched her lipstick and a black dress that molded to every curve.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she’d said.
“Where’re your friends?” Normally she was out with her nursing pals or Madison. He hadn’t recognized anyone in the near vicinity.
“Madison had to head home early. So I’m partying by myself.” She’d frowned into her drink.
“Bad day?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” She’d swirled her beer in her pint glass and then had taken a long swallow. Reece hadn’t spent much time alone with her over the years. Usually the only time he had was when Erin was around. But he’d felt the sharp prick of awareness of just how sexy she was. How much he’d wanted to take her to the bathroom, shove up that scrap of a dress, and show her just how desperate he was for her.
Instead, he’d said, “Let me drive you home. It’s getting late.”
She’d drained the rest of her beer, hopped down from the barstool, and slung an arm around him.
“God. You realize you’re huge?”
He’d chuckled. Even in the heels, she only came up to his shoulder.
“I bet you’d break someone in bed. Or break their bed,” she’d cackled while squeezing his biceps.
Reece didn’t realize how drunk she was until then.
“You doing okay, Smurfette?” He’d managed to guide her into the passenger seat of his truck and taken his place in the driver’s seat.
“Just peachy.” He’d driven the short distance to her apartment and walked her to her door. Even debated staying the night on the couch, making sure she was fine. She’d fumbled with the keys, and after the sixteenth unsuccessful attempt at the lock, he opened the door for her.
He guided her to the bedroom, found a pair of pajamas in her dresser, and left the room to give her some privacy. “I’ll just go get you some water.”
He’d returned to find her sitting on the comforter. Sloane had one of those rooms with an overabundance of throw pillows. Seriously, what did people do with so many pillows? The room was painted a light shade of teal and had enough candles lining the dresser and nightstand to give Reece the sudden urge to check her smoke detectors.
“You should stay.” She’d quirked a brow. “Show me what you can do to my bed.”
“Sloane,” he’d warned.
He would have loved nothing more tha
n to show her what he could do. To her lips, to the soft breasts pressing against the faded AC/DC T-shirt. He’d worship her body . . . if she was sober.
“Please. I want you to stay the night.” She reached out her hands, waiting for him to grab them.
He’d never take advantage of a woman, especially Sloane. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets. “I can’t.”
Her lips pursed into an adorable pout. “Why not?”
“You’re drunk.”
Her hands moved up his leg.
He’d had to think fast. “Ew, Sloane. I wouldn’t get with you if you were the last woman on earth. You’re not my type. The opposite of my type, in fact. Never going to happen. Not in a million years.”
That was a bit of overkill. And a lie, but one he was willing to stand by if it meant keeping her from trying to do something stupid while she was drunk.
Her smile had morphed into a look of pure disdain. She chucked the water he’d handed her in his face and then pointed a finger toward the hallway. “Get out.”
He held his hands up in response. “Okay.”
A hand snapped in front of him, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, where’d you go, man?”
“Just zoned out for a sec. Sorry.” He didn’t need to be thinking about that night. It’d do nothing but get him into trouble.
“Come on. Let’s watch the game,” Jake said as he grabbed his beer and cracked it open.
The Eagles were at the five-yard line, about to get their first touchdown against the 49ers. “You should have seen Sloane’s face when I said I’d love to foster Peaches. Especially after the dog pissed everywhere. Multiple times.” If this was the best Sloane could come up with, she was going to be severely disappointed. Her plan to seek revenge was going to backfire. She’d have no other option than to send a rave review to his chief. He’d play into her game and come out with his job intact.
“Just like now?” Jake pointed to the dog, who was currently peeing on his rug.
“Damn it. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed the leash from the counter and took Peaches outside.
“You’d better get me a glowing review, girl,” he said to the dog as she sniffed around for fifteen minutes on a strip of grass in front of his apartment.
Up In Flames (Flirting with Fire Book 2) Page 7