Chapter One
Where did you come from, cutie? Where's your person?"
It wasn't a complete shock to discover an adorable white boxer in my parking lot, given I ran the only dog training school in town, but it wasn't exactly normal to have a student try to register for class solo. I scanned the dark lot behind my building, hoping to see someone ready to claim the dog, but the only car left was mine.
"Well, that's not good." He wagged his tail at me. "Let's be friends. C'mere." I smiled as I reached for the dog but he danced a few steps backward, ducking out of my strike zone like he was well versed in sneaky grabs.
I mentally applauded the runaway for opting to swing by a business with an owner who usually worked ten-hour days and always had treats stashed on her. I reached into my back pocket. "Hey, look what I've got."
I held out the chunk of dry biscuit and cursed the fact that it wasn't something meatier. But if the dog was hungry-and it was canon that boxers were always hungry-it would do. I squatted and the dog moved closer but then froze, eyes trained on something just beyond me. Then I heard it. Myrtle, the tiger-striped feral parking-lot cat, meowing, daring the dog to come closer like a bewhiskered siren. She loved taunting my canine students on their way into class and had given more than a few curious pups a bloody scratch to the nose.
"Bad idea. She means business. Don't do it."
I was relieved to see that the pup was wearing a collar and I reached for it while the cat sang an off-key aria. My fingers were inches from the black leather strap when the dog rocketed away, intent on getting a mouthful of Myrtle.
"No!"
It wasn't a surprise that the dog didn't even pause when I screamed, but what was a shock was that Myrtle opted to run across the empty parking lot instead of retreating into the shadows along the building. Feral cats have to be clever to survive the streets, which made ancient Myrtle a certified genius. So why would she make herself vulnerable by heading into open space?
"Hey! Leave her alone!" I yelled at the dog as I took off after them. "Stop!"
Myrtle finally darted up a twig that passed for a tree and the dog managed to launch himself halfway up the trunk, making a high-pitched yodeling noise. The dog didn't even seem to notice me as I got closer and barely even turned back to look at me when I finally managed to snag his collar.
"Sorry, no cat snacks for you," I said as I pulled the dog away.
He continued to strain toward Myrtle as we started back to my building, him running triple time in place and me hunched over and awkwardly holding on to his collar. It was late and since the shelter was closed my only option was to call the police nonemergency line and hope that they'd be willing to hold him for the night. It wasn't like I could bring him to my place, since my geriatric mutt, Birdie, wasn't a fan of teens without manners.
"I have to send you to jail, buddy," I said to the dog, who was acting like I wasn't even there.
He suddenly switched directions, charging back across the parking lot as if Myrtle was no longer a potential appetizer. I was more focused on keeping hold of the thin collar, cantilevering myself backward against his weight, and didn't notice the huge form that seemed to materialize out of the darkness and was lumbering right for us.
My fight-or-flight switch toggled until I remembered that I was in Wismer, Pennsylvania, where the crime blotter was filled with heinous acts like stolen lawn ornaments and public intoxication. Didn't matter that it was after ten o'clock and I was alone in the dark parking lot, the only thing I needed to watch out for were the raccoons that raided the dumpster after hours.
The dog was practically levitating at the sight of the man. The giant form was backlit by the lights on the building, giving him the perfect horror movie silhouette. But if the runaway boxer belonged to the guy, he couldn't be all bad, right? And if he was bad maybe the dog would defend me, and we'd make the front page of the Wismer Register?
I leaned over to grip his collar tighter now that he'd kicked into overdrive, and in the split second that I looked down I didn't see the edge of the asphalt, the obnoxious lump of black that ringed the lot that I kept complaining about to my landlord. I wasn't the first person to trip on it, but I was the first to swan dive because of it, scraping my knees then landing on my stomach with a muffled "oof" that didn't let on how absolutely agonizing the fall was.
The dog never even paused to check on me as he took off for the guy.
"Shit, are you okay?"
The voice carried over to me as I tried to pinpoint which part of my body hurt the most. My knees were screaming, my palms felt like they were embedded with shards of glass, and my chest and stomach were going concave, but my wrist? No words.
Worst of all, I was mortified that someone else had witnessed it. I sat up slowly.
"Looks like that really hurt."
The guy had jogged over and was kneeling next to me while what was unmistakably his dog jumped in circles around us.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
It was a lie and we both knew it. When I finally found the nerve to look at his face I froze.
"You."
"Hey, Chels."
Up until that moment it had been an unseasonably warm September night but a chill rolled through me as I tried to process why Andrew Gibson was squatting next to me in my parking lot.
"What are you doing here?"
I watched his face cycle through a series of emotions, but before he could answer, his dog hunched over and made a deposit just a few feet away from us, buying his person time in the form of three perfectly shaped logs.
The dull pain seeping through my limbs was completely at odds with my reflexive reaction to seeing Andrew. Heartbeat speeding to triple time, the urge to stand a little taller, heat rushing to my face that I hoped he couldn't see in the dim light. It was like every part of me automatically recalibrated to trying to look cute despite my actual feelings for him. I hated my body for betraying me.
Andrew slapped his jacket pockets. "Damn it, I don't have a bag on me. Do you . . ."
"Does the woman who owns a dog training school happen to have an extra poop bag on her?" I winced as my palm rubbed against my back pocket, then handed him the eco-friendly bag. It was just like Andrew to let his dog run wild and forget to carry one of the core components of responsible pet parenthood.
I rose to my feet slowly while he picked up the mess.
"That's some quality poop. Nice work," Andrew said to his dog. I saw him flash a thumbs-up and the dog wiggled harder, then jumped up and rebounded off his chest. He barely budged, but then again, it wasn't like a sixty-five-pound dog could have much of an impact on someone as massive as Andrew.
He was big when we were in college, but the Andrew staring me down in my parking lot was certifiably gigantic. It seemed like he'd also gained a few inches of height in addition to the muscles he'd packed on, as if his entire body had kept growing well past puberty into this man-shaped mountain. His sandstone Carhartt jacket was unzipped, exposing a simple gray T-shirt that fit like he'd never eaten a carb. It was hard not to gawk at him, despite the fact that when I caught him in profile I noticed a tiny man-bun at the crown of his head.
How did he manage to make it look good?
My best friend, Samantha, had told me during one of our gossip downloads that he'd moved on from his job as assistant strength coach with the Washington Commanders, but I never asked for follow-up details. There was no reason for me to keep tabs on Andrew Gibson and I was sure he felt the same about me.
"You didn't tell me why you're here," I said.
Andrew tied the poop bag in a tidy knot and launched it in the general direction of the dumpster. I let out an agitated sigh when I heard it hit the ground.
"I hope you're going to put that where it belongs," I said, trying to keep the schoolmarm out of my voice.
A smile played around the corners of his mouth and it was then I realized that he had the beginnings of a beard, a shadow that underscored the cut of his jawline. "Well, you haven't changed a bit."
That grin. I knew what it could do.
"Why are you here?" I punched each word to make it clear that I wasn't going to let him dodge my question again.
"Yeah, sorry, I've been meaning to stop over. We're, uh, we're gonna be neighbors, I guess." He pointed at the modest industrial building behind us. "I just signed the lease today."
No.
Impossible. The taut muscles along the back of my neck cranked tighter at the thought of being forced to deal with him every day. The last tenant in the space had been a T-shirt printing business that kept to themselves and occasionally gave me misprints, like the shirt they did for a local brewery that was supposed to say "Try an ale" but accidentally dropped the "e."
"Doing what?"
"I'm finally opening my private gym."
He cracked his knuckles and stared at me as his dog parkoured off of him again.
I wasn't surprised that Andrew was making his dream a reality. He'd always been a doer. Not in the way I was, of course. It wasn't like his major in exercise science was tough, which left him plenty of time to focus on his extracurricular activities. There'd always been something about him that made people want to fall in line behind him. Whether it was rallying the crowd for the next stop of a pub crawl or gathering enough signatures to host a Squats for Tots fundraiser in front of the library, Andrew Gibson got shit done.
"Congrats." The one-word response to what was a huge achievement would have to do. It was all I could muster up since I was still reeling about the fact that he was right there.
"Thanks." He reached down to pet his dog. "And sorry about this guy. He's still pretty wild. I've only had him a few weeks and I just found out he's deaf."
Of course. Deafness is common in white boxers. How did I miss that?
"He's cute. What's his name?"
"Dude."
"You named your dog Dude?"
Andrew nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Yeah, before I realized he was deaf I thought it would be funny to yell 'Hey, Dude!' when I wanted him to come. It was either that or Mister."
It was just like him to turn his dog's name into a joke. Although, yeah, it was kind of funny.
Not that I'd ever tell him that.
"You ripped your jeans," Andrew said, pointing at my knee. I blushed in the darkness because he'd probably scanned my entire body. The fact that I'd worked a long day was written all over me, from the dusty paw prints tattooed up and down my legs to my two-days-dirty hair shoved into a ponytail. It wasn't fair that he looked like Andrew Gibson Action Figure, now with a dynamic physique for more realistic poses.
"I don't think that's the only thing I ripped." I winced as I tried to roll my wrist. I was exhausted, in pain, and mystified why, of all the places he could've wound up, Andrew had picked the rental next to mine. There was a small commercial cookie baker in between us, but it wasn't enough of a buffer for me. Hell, Pennsylvania to DC hadn't been enough of a buffer. "Anyway, I need to get home. Glad you and Dude are reunited. Good luck with your business. Guess I'll be seeing you."
I realized too late that I'd teed him up for the perfect dad joke, but instead of rattling off the typical response about seeing me first he gave me a curt nod then looked down at his waist.
Andrew fiddled with his belt buckle, then whipped it out of the loops on his jeans with a snap that echoed through the parking lot. I sucked in a breath, trying not to focus on the many ways everything could go south. We'd never been close despite our ties to Samantha and Nolan, but I knew he wasn't the type to make me wish I had the Mace my mom had given me a million years ago. At least back in the day he wasn't. He'd even carried me home from a bar that one time I passed out in a corner booth. I didn't remember much of it aside from how solid he felt as he cavemanned me back to my dorm. I might have nestled up against him as he deposited me in my twin bed, but more than likely it was just due to the spins. That night I'd dreamed Andrew and I were on a roller coaster together, kissing each time it crested a hill, and I woke up the next morning feeling more hungover than usual.
I hadn't talked to Andrew in over five years yet here he was, standing a few feet away from me in the darkness in a deserted parking lot that was a quarter mile away from the next closest building.
Beltless.
I held my breath when he took a few steps toward me, then let it out in an embarrassed whoosh as he reached down to thread it under Dude's collar. Of course he didn't have a leash for his dog.
"Anyway, sorry about Dude. We'll both try to stay out of your way. Probably for the best, right?"
I struggled to figure out if he meant because of our history or because of my canine students. I ignored the first option. "Well, yeah, with all the dogs going in and out, he shouldn't be running around unattended. I teach Rowdy Rover classes on Wednesday nights and he'll be sorry if he tries to mess with those dogs. Keep him on a leash."
Copyright © 2023 by Victoria Schade. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
