Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
The cat room is down the other side of an orange concrete corridor, and we’ve been combing the rooms of dogs in the main hallway—each one with some dog beds, toys, and a cardboard piece of paper detailing info about the mutt on the window. Good with cats. Best without kids. Would do well with another dog. That kind of thing.
Sawyer’s pace is deliberate. He stops at each room, his jaw set hard, his eyes intense as he checks out the pups, stopping to say hi to each one.
At a Pit Bull-Lab mix who wags a hopeful tail his way, Sawyer drags a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. “How do I even choose? I want to save them all.”
“I know,” I say, my chest aching, feeling the same. “But you’ll know when you know.”
He swings his gaze past a Boxer mix, then a Lab-Husky, then a dog with so many breeds in it, I’m not sure anyone knows who he is. Sawyer winces, like it pains him to pass them up, and I bet it does.
It pains me.
When we near the end of the concrete corridor, he stops, and studies the dog behind the glass, then reads the info card. A Finnish Spitz-Basenji mix.
“He looks like a fox,” Sawyer says of the tawny pup with pointy ears who stands tall as he scampers toward Sawyer, his curly tail wagging inquisitively. The card says he’s eight or nine and his name is Foxy, but I suspect that’s likely the name the shelter gave him.
“I wonder what his story is,” Sawyer muses, right as the shelter coordinator walks our way, lugging a plastic container full of syringes.
She stops and nods toward the room. Her dark eyes are friendly behind her black glasses, though her demeanor is super businesslike. “His owner passed away.”
My throat tightens.
Sawyer’s expression softens. “And no one could take care of him?”
The woman shakes her head. “No family.”
My chest hollows out. For the owner. For the dog.
“Do you know what his name was before?” I ask, out of curiosity.
She smiles. “Just…Dog.”
The grin spreads across Sawyer’s face as he turns to me. “It was meant to be.”
I think it was.
* * *
Sawyer and the dog hang out for a good hour, getting to know each other and taking a short walk around the block. He signs the contract, thanks the shelter coordinator, and then we leave. On the drive home, with the dog in a crate in the backseat of Sawyer’s car, I say, “You can’t really have a dog named Dog.”
“Why not?”
“Sawyer,” I say with a sigh.
“Seriously. Why not?”
“He’s not a plant or a car.”
He goes thoughtful as he drives toward his home. “You’re right.”
“You’ll give him a real name then?”
At the stop sign, he flashes me a smug grin. “Yes. I will call him…Mister Dog.”
Nothing is more Sawyer, and I love it.
What I love, too, is how he let me help him set up his home for Mister Dog, since we picked up a collar with ducks on it and a leash, bowls, a bag of food, a dog bed, and dog stairs at the little pet shop next to the rescue.
“Well, it’ll help him sleep on my bed,” Sawyer explains, as if I needed an explanation.
The next morning, I wake to a text from Sawyer. It’s a photo of Mister Dog in bed with him. They both look sleepy and happy. My heart feels dangerously full.
On Monday night, it’s time for another dance lesson. But this one’s at the theater. This one’s just for us. My mother gave me the key, and it’s well past nine as we practice and practice and practice. With Sawyer singing about flying to the moon, then reaching for my hand during the prerecorded instrumental bridge, we dance until he’s as smooth as the singer he’s replaced.
“And this is another thing you’re good at,” I say when he dips me, then sets me down on the piano bench so I can finish playing the song while he sings the final chorus of the romantic tune.
But he doesn’t return to center stage. He sets down his mic on the glossy black baby grand. I keep playing, figuring he’ll improvise.
And I suppose he does. He slides behind me on the bench, one leg on either side of mine, his chest to my back, his face to my neck, his lips on my cheek.
I gasp but keep playing.
It’s hard, though, since he’s kissing me, his open-mouthed caresses turning my brain to mush. Soon, my fingers are sliding off the keys, and his fingers are pulling up the silky fabric of my dress, then running along my inner thighs, and I’m pretty sure he wants to fly me to the moon in a whole new way.
In no time, he slips his fingers inside my panties. This wasn’t what we came here for, but it feels inevitable.