Page 2 of Puppy Love

“Mmfffgmm.”

“That’s not a real word, Hayden,” I say, grabbing the blanket trapped underneath him and pulling it over myself. Hayden huffs as he rolls over, though not enough to make the blanket-pulling any easier.

“Bright,” he finally manages to croak. His arm drapes over his eyes dramatically to shield him from the sun peeking through the blinds. At least I know I’m not the only one who got a little too drunk last night.

Adrian, Hayden, Avery, and I held a cocktail party. “Party” meaning us and the dogs. Pumpkin, Avery’s prehistoric Chihuahua, sat most of it out, and Eloise, Hayden’s retired service dog, spent most of the night passed out under the table. Dawson and Major, however, partied just as hard as we did. If not harder.

“Cam, I love you,” he mutters, still not opening his eyes. “But I am never celebrating anything with you again.”

Look, I’m not usually the party type. On my birthdays, I like to binge True Crime and spend an absurd amount of money on books that will probably take me years to read. But last night marked the end of something huge. Bigger than a birthday. Better, even.

Yesterday was my last day working at The Dog Shop.

The Dog Shop is any dog groomer’s biggest nightmare. It’s worse than chipped blades and matted coats, angry parents and labor violations. It’s worse, because it’s all of those things combined. I mean, if the gays have a place in hell, so does corporate America, given that it fucks pretty much everyone. Everyone except the founders of corporations like The Dog Shop.

Honestly, I’m surprised they don’t have more lawsuits on their hands. Maybe it’s because years of overbooked schedules, micromanaging supervisors, and neglected animals make you too tired to do anything. But the days of putting up with that are finally over.

“You could throw up,” I suggest. “It made me feel better. Kinda.”

Hayden’s hand moves to his stomach, his fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“Please, please don’t talk about throwing up right now.”

Major, a white standard poodle puppy, nudges Hayden’s hand with his nose, and I watch a soft smile slowly form on his face as he complies with his dog’s demands.

Hayden is just about the most charming man in existence. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. Well, minus the congenital heart defect. His blonde hair is lighter than mine, thicker too, yet somehow always perfectly styled. Even now, after a drunken night passed out on the couch, his hair is messy in such a precise way you wouldn’t know it wasn’t supposed to look like that. Mine is frizzy and tangled, like a lion’s mane. A lion who desperately needs a deep conditioning treatment. His eyes are blue, but not blue like the ocean. They’re softer, gentler, with just the slightest tint of purple in the right lighting. And that smile. Hayden has the type of smile that can get you to do just about anything. It’s bright and sweet, effortless but not perfect in a way that seems fake.

Hayden Ayers is the type of person you should be in complete, uncontrollable love with. But, for some inexplicable, universal revenge, it would feel like incest if anything were to happen between us. I can’t say I hate that, though. He makes a pretty good fake brother.

“So, are you excited for your first day?” he asks, slowly pulling himself upright. I sink further under the blanket, trying not to make any sudden movements that could trigger my stomach acid’s evacuation.

“Yeah,” I say casually, trying to act as if my entire insides aren’t vibrating with excitement and anxiety. “I’m pretty stoked.”

If I’m being honest, I thought I was going to work at The Dog Shop until it was time to crawl into my grave. Not because I had to—my contract ended two-and-a-half years ago. Not even really because I wanted to—who would want to work somewhere so hostile?

No. I was going to work at The Dog Shop for the rest of my life because the thought of starting over somewhere new was terrifying enough to make me stay.

Key word: was. Thanks to my psychologist, Dr. Burton and Adrian’s pleas to Avery as their supervisor, I am now officially an independent contractor at Furry Friends Pet Resort, starting Monday.

Furry Friends isn’t really a grooming salon. According to Avery and Adrian, it’s more of a five-star hotel for dogs. Customers had been requesting they add grooming services for years, and last month, the owner finally agreed.

That’s what Avery says, at least. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked that he picked me. Even though Pumpkin is one of my most loyal clients, Avery and I aren’t exactly one another’s favorite person. So, when Adrian told me he hadn’t even posted a job search, my jaw practically shattered from hitting the floor. Avery told me that he picked me because he doesn’t trust anyone else with his own dog, and to not “read too much into it.”

I read too much into everything, yet this was a riddle even I couldn’t quite solve.

A forty-five-pound black ball of energy thrusts itself on top of me, sending my stomach swirling and goosebumps rising on my skin as the nausea builds. I clutch my churning gut and curl into the fetal position.

“Dawson! Off!” I command.

Completely oblivious to the immense discomfort he has just caused me, Dawson obeys, sinking into a wiggly sitting position. A long strip of hair from the top of his neck leads down the center of his back to his forever-swaying tail, forming a coarse mohawk. Peppered white paws and a patch of wispy white hair on his chest contrast against the remainder of his dark coat. He looks up at me lovingly.

“Freakin’ border collies,” I mutter, as if he isn’t the love of my life.

Dawson isn’t a border collie, at least not entirely. Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what he is. His body screams collie, but his wiry coat is that of a Brillo Pad. My hand cups the underside of his chin, and I scratch him gently. From the kitchen, Adrian tosses two cold, red bottles of fruit-punch-flavored Gatorade at Hayden and me.

“So, I was thinking,” they say cheerily, like they didn’t down four Monacos last night. Adrian has this superpower that makes them physically incapable of being hungover. At least, I’ve never seen it. “Do you want to carpool on Monday?”

Everyone is scared of something. I was scared of starting a new job, Avery is scared of vomit, and Adrian? Well, Adrian is terrified of driving.

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