Page 7 of Mismatched

I’m sorry. <3 You want to meet up this week?

LOVE to—I’ve missed your face.

How have things been? Have you gotten any more of those emails?

Caprice

Unfortunately.

Oh no. A bad one?

Caprice

Prefer to show you in person. Can we shoot for tomorrow?

I’ll come over after work.

It’s been three months since my journalist best friend published her article about Unmatched, the cheating app where she found my husband among a slew of high-profile philanderers. Caprice’s investigation may have ultimately saved my marriage, but it set off a firestorm of hate mail from some less-appreciative people. Most of it has been rude or gross, but ignorable. Expletives and dick pics, according to Caprice, are sadly par for the course for female journalists. However, some of the messages have crossed the line into worrisome or even scary. Enough that I regularly track her phone and check in before work most days. I’m anxious to spend some time with her in person now that we’re back. I have a feeling she’s been downplaying the situation.

“Donuts!” My eighteen-year-old employee, Kai, spots the white bakery box balanced in my arms as soon as I step through the door of The Pooch Park II. They whisk it toward the brand-new break room, which Henry insists on calling our conference room. Relieved of one burden, I re-shuffle my armload of cleaning supplies and printer paper, finally managing to extend Heartthrob’s leash to Francie, my manager at the front desk.

“Hey!” She brightens when she sees me, then notices the donuts and looks confused. “Is there a staff meeting today?”

“Nope. Henry and I are just going over the numbers. But I found myself in the Dunkin’ drive-through on the way over.” I wink at her. “Tell everybody to grab one.”

She grins, then takes Heartthrob with her to the large dog playroom. I watch for a moment through the observation windows, still marveling that this place, which was a mess of brick and wires and dirt a few months ago, is now a cheery, brightly painted canine oasis.

Francie removes Heartthrob’s leash and collar, then he bounds through the gate into the pack. For five seconds, he holds perfectly still, letting the other dogs get a good sniff, then he and a young Irish Setter go bounding away, chasing each other around the plastic obstacle course.

I let out a contented sigh. The last seven days have been sad and stressful, and I’m not thrilled about the way things went down this morning. But the tension in my spine eased as soon as I walked through the Pooch Park door. I know what to do here. I know just what’s expected of me.

“Welcome back,” Henry says, appearing from around the corner. He doesn’t have much of an accent, but combined with his perfectly coiffed dark hair and aloof Mr. Darcy expressions, his voice is just British enough to make half my employees swoon. Once I glance at him, though, I snort.

“If Tom Ford only knew where you wore his suits.” I grin, shaking my head. “Do you have a lunch date or something?”

Henry rolls his eyes. I spent our first couple weeks together trying to convince him he didn’t need to dress to the nines at the Pooches (my nickname for all three businesses), but he has steadfastly ignored me. While he might be overly groomed, he quickly proved his business sense, so I mostly shut up about it. But since he is a handsome guy, his suits only add to the aesthetic. I’ve heard plenty of the staff whispering about their “hot boss” since he came on as my partner, and I know they’re not talking about me in my messy bun and Old Navy leggings.

He straightens. “It’s our first official meeting with a solid month of profit and loss. I didn’t think it prudent to go on a full retreat just yet since we’re still building clientele, but this is a major moment in our endeavor and I intend to treat it so.”

I bite my lip at his stuffy tone.

“Well. I brought donuts!” I say, leading the way toward the conference room.

There are only four pastries left in the box when we get there, and I snag the last Bismarck, but Henry declines. We set up our laptops on the repurposed dining table I scored at a secondhand store, and he takes out his ever-present notebook. But as we sit down he looks at me and lowers his voice. “How is Anton doing? Did everything go all right in Dallas?”

I’m licking chocolate frosting off my fingers, grateful for the excuse to take my time answering. “The service was beautiful. Seth’s eulogy especially.” I pause, swallowing hard. I miss my kind, sweet mother-in-law, but I’m grateful her struggle is over. “Anton will be all right. He’s taken it kind of hard, but I think he just needs some time.”

Henry seems satisfied with that, and I’m thankful when we launch straight into spreadsheets, profit and loss statements, and cash flow projections for all three businesses. I’m not sure how long we spend there, but at some point the afternoon crew clocks in, and Francie brings us a couple of delivered sandwiches.

“So—not bad for one month in,” I say, sitting back in my chair.

“Not at all,” Henry agrees, looking surprisingly pleased with the numbers. “Considering we’re averaging half capacity still, we should be doing quite well by end of year.”

I nod. “So, what do you think about offering some kind of employee health plan down the road?”

Henry’s gaze slides over to mine. “I’ve never heard you say that was a priority.”

“The groomer we hired to start tomorrow? She left a message that she took a job at Pets’N Co instead. A few of the daycare employees have told me their friends would love to work here, but they need something with insurance.”

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