by Abby Jimenez
“You wouldn’t mind?” I asked, stepping onto a moving walkway.
“No. I love him.”
Something sad in her voice made me smile into the phone. Not that I was reveling in her unhappiness—I wasn’t insensitive to the fact that just a half an hour earlier she’d thought Tucker was hers, and now she had to give him up. But it was nice to hear that the person watching him actually gave a shit about him.
“That would be great. I hate the idea of putting him in a kennel.”
“He’d be miserable,” she agreed, sounding a little miserable herself.
“Hey, can I call you back?” I’d been on a plane for four hours. I needed to find a restroom.
When I called Sloan back on my way toward baggage claim, we both seemed to have benefited from the break. Her voice sounded almost shy now. I thought for a second maybe she recognized me from my photos. Or maybe she just felt bad for being so pissed at me. Either way I was glad. If she was going to watch Tucker for me, we should at least be friendly.
We talked dog-sitting fees for a few minutes. Then I moved on to other logistics.
“Text me your address so I can send you a crate,” I said.
“A crate? Why?”
“He sleeps in his crate at night. If he doesn’t have it, he tends to destroy the house, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“He hasn’t destroyed anything except for the belt of my robe on the first day. And he sleeps with me, in my bed.”
I laughed. “I find it highly unlikely that he’s not chewing your furniture to a pulp. It’s his favorite pastime.”
Chair legs, the armrest of my couch, doorjambs—Tucker demolished all.
I found baggage claim and waited with the crowd from my flight as the carousel started going around, empty.
“He hasn’t chewed a single thing since the belt,” she said. “He’s a perfect angel.”
“Really?” I said incredulously.
She snorted. “I wouldn’t try and keep a dog who was destroying my house.”
“Good point. Well, I’m glad he’s being a gentleman,” I said, checking the time and watching as the first luggage came down the ramp. I had rehearsal in two hours.
“I still have scratches from him jumping on me through the sunroof. Did you teach him that, by the way?”
“Uh, no. Did he really do that?”
“You think I’d make that up? Hold on.” There was a pause. “Okay, go look. I just sent you my ticket.”
A picture message came through my phone. It was a ticket from the LAPD with a flip-flop magnet over the recipient’s information. The officer had detailed the entire event, sunroof and all.
I shook my head. “Unbelievable. He’s never done anything like that before.” He must have been out of his damn mind. “He’s a little high energy.”
“He just needs exercise.”
He’d probably gone stir-crazy with Monique. “Are you sure you don’t want the crate?”
“I definitely don’t want it. He sleeps with me while he’s here. That’s a hard rule for me. And I’m not giving you my address either. You could be a creeper.”
I snorted. “I’m not a creeper.”
“Yeah, well, that’s exactly what a creeper would say.”
There was a smile in there.
“How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.
She scoffed. “Well, that’s unnecessary.”
“What? Me asking your age? It’s the first thing I’d ask a dog-sitter in an interview,” I reasoned, though that wasn’t really what drove my interest. I liked her messages. They’d been kind of funny.
“Well, that would be illegal. You can’t ask someone their age on a job interview.”
I smiled. “What can I ask?”
“Let’s see, you can ask what my background is.”
“Are you in HR? You seem awfully knowledgeable about properly conducted interviews.”
“See, that’s a question you could ask.”
Witty.
“And I thought I already had the job,” she pointed out.
“You do. What? I can’t know a little about who my best friend is sleeping with?”
I heard her snort and I grinned.
“Your best friend is sleeping with a young lady smart enough to know better than to tell a stranger where she lives and how old she is. Are you going to ask me if I’m home alone next?”
“Are you?”
“Wow. You’re definitely a creeper.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’ll bet,” she said. A pause. “I live alone.”
“Okay. Any other pets?”
“Nope. Such a thorough interview. I have a feeling these questions weren’t asked the last time you selected a dog-sitter,” she said wryly.
I grinned. “I’m trying to learn from my many mistakes.”
“I don’t have any other pets. But I grew up with German shepherds. You have to exercise working dogs. They become destructive if you don’t make them tired. Tucker’s a birding dog. He’s bred for high activity.”
I knew this, of course, but it impressed me that she did. “And so you’re keeping him busy?”
The sound of running water and the clink of dishes came through the phone. Then I heard her talking to Tucker quietly in the background and my smile broadened. She asked him if he was a good boy and if he wanted a puppy snack. He barked.
“Walking him five miles a day,” she said. “My tan looks great.”
“I’d love to see that. Send me a picture.”
It was a joke—kind of. I did want to see what she looked like. I was curious.
“And now you’ve got a lawsuit on your hands. Sexually harassing an employee.” She tsked. “You must be a nightmare for your human resources department.”
“Nah, I’m only a pain in my own ass.”
“Oh yeah? What do you do?”
So she didn’t recognize me. That wasn’t unusual—it was also something I was working very hard to change. My luggage came around the carousel. My guitar case sat a few bags behind it. “I’m a musician.”
“Oh, one of those Hollywood types. In the biz, on tour or away filming a soundtrack for an indie movie overseas.”
She wasn’t far off. Jesus, was I really that cliché?
“Something like that. I am touring with a group. And there is a movie involved. But it’s not an indie film.”
The movie was kind of a big one, actually, but I didn’t like to throw that around. Even though that seemed to be the LA thing to do, name-dropping made me feel like an asshole.
I lifted my luggage and guitar off the moving belt. Now both hands were occupied, and I had to hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder. I needed to get through customs and catch an Uber to my hotel, which meant I should probably hang up. But instead I wandered over to the bench just inside the entrance to baggage claim and sat down, setting my guitar case on the seat next to me.
“Hmm…” she said, sounding bored now. “Everyone’s in the business here.”
She didn’t press me for more about the movie. She seemed uninterested. I was a little surprised. All Monique had cared about when I first met her was who I was and who I knew. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that ever really changed. It was refreshing to talk to someone who didn’t give a shit what I could do for their career. Frankly, I was a little sick of talking about it.
I switched the subject. “And what do you do?”
“Nothing interesting,” she said vaguely.
“How do you know I won’t think it’s interesting? You work from home and you have the time to walk five miles a day and rescue stray dogs. I’d like to know what gives you such a flexible schedule. You know, to gauge whether or not your lifestyle is conducive to dog-sitting.”
She made a noise that I imagined went with an eye roll. “I’m an artist.”
“And how is that uninteresting?”
“It just is. What I paint is uninteresting.”
“Then why
paint it? Can’t you paint what you want?” I put my ankle over my knee and leaned back on the bench.
The running water shut off in the background, and she went quiet for a moment.
“What’s your website?” I asked, feeling pretty sure she wasn’t going to give it to me, but figuring I should give it a shot.
“I don’t have a website. And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
I smiled. “You’re consistent. I like that in a dog-sitter.” Then I looked at my watch. “I need to get going here.”
“Okay. Well, have a good trip, I guess.”
“Sloan? Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you rescued Tucker and took such good care of him. And I really appreciate you watching him until I get back.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Thank you for saying thank you,” she said finally.
My lips twisted into a sideways smile. “We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 4
Sloan
♪ ocean eyes | Billie Eilish
I looked at the pictures of Tucker with Jason.
Again.
I’d been ogling them since he’d sent them to me yesterday. For all the crap I gave Jason, it turned out I was the creeper.
Jason was hot. No, he was beyond hot. He was bearded, thick brown hair, sexy smile, blue eyes hot. Six-pack abs on the beach hot.
I watched a lot of crime shows, and I’d gone full forensic psychologist on the screenshot of his cell phone home page.
The time on his phone was Australia’s, so he was there, like he’d said he was.
The musician thing seemed true enough. He had a disproportionate amount of music apps. No Tinder or other hookup sites. There were Uber, Twitter, and YouTube. All the standard social media. Tons of notifications, but then he’d just landed, and he’d said he had been out of contact for a few weeks, so that made sense and actually gave his story credibility.
Overall, no glaring red flags that screamed pathological liar or mass murderer. And it was pretty adorable that Tucker was his wallpaper image.
I put a hand between Tucker’s ears and tousled his fur. “Why didn’t you tell me your dad was so handsome?” He leaned into me and let me kiss his head.
To say I was sad about losing Tucker in two weeks was the understatement of the year.
Tucker changed me. I felt good. Better than I’d felt in ages, actually. And I realized that somewhere along the line, the tiredness that comes with grief had turned into the kind that comes from inactivity and a crappy diet of caffeine and sugar.
Tucker got me moving. He gave my days purpose. And now he would be leaving me in a few weeks, and I felt panic at the thought of being alone again, like I wouldn’t know how to keep doing this new and improved me if I didn’t have him.
I had been so close to just keeping him. But after I’d hung up on Jason, I’d thought about what he’d said, that he’d been out of town and he hadn’t known Tucker was missing. I wasn’t a dog thief. If I had suspected for one second he was going back to a neglectful home, I’d have kept him and never looked back. But I couldn’t take him from someone who truly loved him.
Josh wandered in from the direction of the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. “All done. Water heater’s in.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“You should have let us buy it for you,” he said, giving me a look.
Josh was like my big brother. Brandon would have been happy to know that his best friend took care of me like he did. But I didn’t like to take advantage of it. It was enough that Josh fixed half the things that broke around here for free—he didn’t need to buy the things too. I’d bought and had the water heater delivered before I even told Josh the old one had broken. Otherwise he would have just picked it up for me.
“It’s okay. I have the money,” I lied. “Took some extra commissions this week.”
He studied me for a long moment, but I didn’t break character.
“Okay.” He glanced at his phone. “Well, I’m gonna head home and tap out the sitter. Kristen’s already on her way over with dinner.”
They liked to feed me. I think they thought if they didn’t, I’d starve to death. Six months ago I’d put my foot down and only allowed dinner once a week now. They used to be here every day, but it had started to get ridiculous. They had a baby and their own lives, and I didn’t want to feel like their responsibility. Kristen would never say it, but I think it was a relief. Either because she thought I was getting better or because she was glad she didn’t have to schlep over here every day. I’d filled my freezer with Lean Cuisines and shocked them both when I didn’t die from malnourishment.
“See you later.” Josh gave me a hug, ruffled Tucker’s ears, flashed me a dimpled smile, and left.
The dog laid his head back on my lap, and I peered down at him. I took my cell phone and hit the camera icon and snapped a shot. “I bet Jason would like to see some of your vacation pictures,” I said, thumbing a text into the phone and shooting the photo off.
Sloan: All worn out after a six-mile hike!
I set my phone down and lolled my head back on the sofa. Then my cell pinged.
Jason: I bet he loved it.
Another ping.
Jason: No picture of you?
I rolled my eyes. Sexy or not, he was a stranger. I wasn’t going to send him pictures of me.
Sloan: Do you think how I look is going to have any bearing on my ability to watch your dog?
The three little dots started jumping, letting me know he was typing a response. I smiled. I’d kind of liked talking to him yesterday. I sat up and tucked my feet under me as I waited for the reply. “Your dad’s a flirt,” I said to Tucker. He looked up at me with those soft copper eyes and then put his chin back in my lap.
Jason: You’ve seen pictures of me. I don’t think it’s that weird to want to put a face to a name. You’re watching my favorite person in the world and I don’t even know you.
I twisted my lips. He had a bit of a point. But still.
Sloan: You’re a stranger. You could be a pirate.
The dots began jumping again.
Jason: Aye, that be true.
I laughed.
Jason: Do you like games?
Where was this going?
Sloan: It depends.
Jason: On?
Sloan: On whether someone ends up drunk or naked at the end of it. I don’t like those games. I always end up the sober one, driving all the drunk, naked people home.
Jason: Not that kind of game.
Sloan: I’m listening.
Jason: Every day I can ask you one question to get to know you better. And if you don’t want to answer it, you have to send me a picture.
I shook my head while I typed.
Sloan: What kind of questions are we talking about? The yes-or-no, check-a-box kind?
Jason: Lol! No, too elementary school. Real questions. I can ask anything I want, and you have to answer it truthfully.
Sloan: Do I get to ask you a question every day?
Jason: Of course.
Sloan: And if you don’t want to answer it?
Jason: I’ll answer it.
Sloan: How about if you don’t want to answer it, you have to let me keep Tucker an extra day.
There was a pause between texts. The ceiling fan made a steady clicking noise above me while I waited.
Jason: Deal.
Sloan: Deal.
His questions were going to be perverted. I was almost certain. He wanted a picture, so he’d probably ask me things he thought I’d never answer. But the game was too alluring. And I liked the idea of asking this good-looking mystery man about himself. It was kind of fun.
Jason: Ready for my first question?
Sloan: Ready.
Jason: Why don’t you paint what you want to paint?
I stared at the text. I hadn’t been expecting that.
Had he asked it to throw me off? Had my weirdness over my art shone through
in our brief conversation yesterday? I let out a deep breath. Now I kind of wished there were just yes and no boxes to check.
I decided to deflect him.
Sloan: Really? This question? Seems like a waste. You get a do-over.
Jason: Don’t want a do-over.
And then,
Jason: Wouldn’t mind a picture though.
My lips pursed. “Fine,” I muttered to myself.
Sloan: I haven’t painted my own works since my fiancé died two years ago.
The dots started to jump. Then they stopped. Then they started again.
Jason: I’m sorry to hear that.
There was a pause between texts while he typed again.
Jason: Sometimes the hardest place to live is the one in-between.
I blinked at the message.
“Yes…” I whispered.
The dots started bouncing again.
Jason: Your turn. What’s your question?
I was glad he was changing the subject. I didn’t want to talk about this. I thought about my question and decided I’d have a little fun with it.
Sloan: How would you survive a zombie apocalypse?
The dots jumped for several minutes. Then a text pinged, but just three words came through.
Jason: I’m calling you.
The phone rang.
“Well?” I said, answering without saying hello.
“My answer is too long to text.”
“You’ve given the zombie apocalypse that much thought, huh?”
“Haven’t you? It’s a serious situation,” he said sternly.
“Only a matter of time, really.”
I could tell he was smiling when he continued speaking. “Survival is all about going where there’s the least threat of other humans and zombies. We’d have to get to somewhere remote.”
“We?”