Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(36)

“Where’s it going?” I hiss, heading after it. I think I spot a flash of red disappearing around a tower of boxes in the corner, but it’s moving so fast I lose sight of it again. “Duncan, please tell me this creature is housebroken.”

“Creature? He’s a puppy, not a minotaur.”

“You missed the pertinent part of that comment.”

“Relax, he’s housebroken.” Duncan pauses. “For the most part. I think.”

“You think?” I hiss, bending to check behind my writing desk. “You don’t know? Isn’t he your dog?”

“He’s Susie’s. Or…” Duncan’s voice cracks. “He was Susie’s.”

I turn to look at him. “Was?”

Duncan looks more defeated than ever. “We broke up.”

“What?!”

“Yeah.” He sighs tiredly. “Last week. She left me for a guy who works in finance. His name is Al. He has a 401K and steady benefits and exercises at her gym a few times a week — that’s where they met. On the freaking stair-master. How boring is that?”

I hesitate. On the one hand, I can’t exactly blame Susie for breaking up with Duncan. The man is a certified mess. On the other, he’s my brother, and I’m pretty much required to take his side in this scenario no matter what.

“Did she give you a reason for leaving?”

“She said she needed someone dependable, that she couldn’t — and I quote — waste her good egg years on a dilettante man child.”

“Harsh,” I murmur.

“Tell me about it.”

“You guys were together, what, seven months?”

“Eight.” He sighs. “Really thought she was the one.”

“I’m sorry, D. That’s shitty.”

“Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Why didn’t she take the dog with her?”

“Apparently, Al is allergic.” He sighs. “Something about the dander.”

“Are you keeping him?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” His eyes get a little glossy. “He’s the only thing I have left of hers.”

Shit.

I hate when people cry. I never know what to say, or how to react without sounding like an emotionless robot. Generally, I think platitudes like it’ll get better and time heals all wounds are for Hallmark cards and Lifetime movies. It seems far too cliché to actually say them out loud.

Thankfully, I’m saved by the distinct noise of liquid hitting hardwood in a steady stream.

“Shit!” I yell, racing toward the sound. “He’s not potty trained at all, Duncan!”

I fly down the hallway to my kitchen. Skidding to a stop by the fridge, I suppress a scream as I see the tiny dog unleashing a torrent of urine that belies his size.

“How do you even fit all that pee in such a small package?!” I mutter, scooping him up into my arms and carrying him, still dribbling, toward the patio door. By the time I get him out onto the tiny patch of grass I call a yard, his tank is empty. He rolls on the grass, tongue lolling from his mouth. Happy as a clam.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” I mutter, arching my brows at him. He’s wagging his tail so furiously, his entire body moves back and forth in a blur. “You do realize, if my landlord finds out about this, she’ll never give me my security deposit back?”

The dog doesn’t answer.

(Shocking, I know.)

With a sigh, I pick him up, tuck him under my arm like a clutch purse, and walk back inside. Duncan is wiping the kitchen floor with a wet paper towel.

“Sorry about that, sis.”

I scratch the puppy behind his velvety ear in an absent gesture. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one, yet. The breeder brought him over the day after Susie left… I was waiting to name him, until I knew for sure…”

Whether she was coming back.

“Kind of strange timing, getting a dog together if she was planning on dumping you,” I can’t help pointing out, lowering the mongrel back to the floor. He promptly collapses on my feet, paws sprawling in all directions like his bones are made of rubber.

It’s not cute.

At all.

Deny, deny, deny.

“Apparently she put her name down on a waiting list for him before we even started dating,” Duncan explains. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Well, Clifford the Little Red Dog needs a name.” I pause. “Maybe you should call him Pisser. Or Tinkles. Or Puddles.”

“Funny.” Duncan rises to his feet. “Pee aside, he’s pretty cute, isn’t he?”

I shrug. “I suppose, if you like slobber on your face and pee on your floors.”

“Oh, come on, sis. He’s a redhead too. You’re kindred spirits. Practically related.”

I snort. “Yes, because that’s how genetics work.”

“Even you aren’t immune to those puppy eyes.”

Staring down into said glossy eyes, I swallow harshly.

It’s just a dog. You don’t even like dogs. They chew shoes and dry hump and leave a trail of drool and destruction everywhere they go.

Somehow, my inner voice is less convincing, studying the way his shiny fur catches the light, the way his chest rises and falls gently as his eyes drift closed and he falls asleep with his tiny head pillowed against my bare feet.