Page 84 of Puppy Love

I shake my head.

“I can’t. We don’t have time.”

Adrian frowns, looking at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Cam, we have plenty of time.”

I shake my head.

“No,” I say, shooting them a grin. “We have a pit stop to make.”

Adrian stares at the empty spot on the wall of the Greenrock Gallery of Fine Arts, tracing their fingers along it. Their lips mouth the words written on the sign hanging below it, and they pause, chewing on their lip before looking up at me.

“I don’t get it,” they frown. “Where’s my painting?”

I smile and point to the sign they just read.

“Read it again.”

Adrian makes a face, but they comply.

“Homemade, Adrian Barlowe, 2024, Oil, has found a temporary home in—” Their brows furrow, but their eyes widen when the next part comes out in a gasp. “In the Pacific Mountain Gallery of Fine Arts!”

Their head snaps up to me, tears filling their eyes.

“What? But how?” They look back at the bare wall in disbelief, then back up at me. “How?”

I smile, giving them a shrug. “Anassia changed her mind, I guess.”

Adrian throws their arms around me, squeezing tighter than ever.

“I don’t know what you did,” they say, their voice strained from the tight hug. “But thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I hug them back, my face sinking into their soft curly hair.

“It’s all you,” I say. “She just needed a little shove.”

Adrian pulls back, now eyeing me suspiciously.

“Should I be... concerned about Anassia? Is she, like, tied up in your trunk or something? Cause I swear I heard a noise.”

I roll my eyes, pushing them away playfully.

“Anassia is fine,” I say, her name tasting bitter in my mouth. I’m sure she’s actually a wonderful person. But… “Like I said, it was just a little shove.”

Adrian smiles, placing a warm wet kiss on my forehead.

“You are my favorite person in existence,” they say, their eyes locking onto mine. “You know that, right?”

My heart sinks into my stomach, but I smile.

“You’re mine, Ry.” I swallow. “And yeah. I know that.”

Adrian walked into Furry Friends like they just won the lottery. It was so cute, the way they ran about the place, telling any person and dog who would listen about their piece being shown at Anassia Walker’s studio. Avery banished them to the Party Pen, so they had somewhere to channel their energy, which was probably the safest choice.

“So, it went well, from the sounds of it,” Violet says, closing the salon door behind her as she steps into the room. I look up, my overly-priced and overly-bent Chris Christensen brush stuck halfway through a Great Pyrenees’ butt fluff. I chuckle.

“I think you made their life,” I say, tugging the brush back through. I lock eyes with her. “Thank you.”

Violet shrugs, all nonchalant. “Yeah, well, if the owner of an art gallery is going to give you her phone number, you may as well put it to good use.”

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