Page 17 of The Christmas Box

He lets out a sigh. “I was stupid enough to bring her inagain, this time up to the apartment. I noticed she peed in a squatting position instead of cocking a leg like most male dogs, so I checked, and sure enough, she’s a she. I put her back out this morning, but apparently now she thinks she’s mine.”

I study the little dog through the glass. “She’s really cute. And so sad-looking. Why don’t you adopt her?”

He gapes at me like I just suggested he jump off the top of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. “Because I don’t especially like dogs any more than I like Christmas. And again, she’s pooped and peed onbothlevels of the Lucas Building now.”

“Well, put down some padding or paper. Maybe she’s paper-trained,” I suggest.

“Tried that. Didn’t work. Instead, she went directlynextto the paper. Like she was taunting me.”

I switch my focus from the dog to him. “Yes, I’m sure her goal is to torment you. And who doesn’t like dogs? Even the Grinch had a dog. She could be your trusty companion. Frankly, you seem like a guy who couldusea friend.”

He looks affronted, his eyes going wide. “Don’t worry about me—I haveplentyof friends. They just don’t happen to be in Winterberry.”

I find myself wondering just what kind of friends he has, if I’d like them, and if any of them are female and come with benefits. But then I quickly close the door on that line of curiosity and, with a head tilt, I remember out loud, “Youwerekind of a loner, weren’t you?”

He shrugs. “Not always. Just by high school, I guess. And I had afewbuddies then—just not ones I kept in touch with.”

I decide to turn things back to the cute furball outside the door. “Well, you know what they say. A dog is man’s best friend. And this one is ready to fill the role.”

“Oryoucould adopt her,” he suggests pushily, “if you like her so much.” He arches a challenging brow in my direction.

But I glance back at the dog to find she has eyes only for Travis. “She’s not mooning atmelike I’m her long-lost BFF,” I point out.

He shrugs before remarking, “I thinkanyonewho gives her something to eat would rate best friend status.”

“You should call her Marley,” I go on anyway.

He looks suspicious. “Why?”

“Because Marley was besties with Scrooge.”

“Very funny.” It comes with an eye-roll.

I really do like the idea, though. “And Marley was a ghost in A Christmas Carol, and she’s white, so I think it suits her.”

“Well, you can call the mutt whatever you want, but she’s still the town stray. The last thing I need right now is a dog.”

Travis

I’m crossing back over to my side of the street after leaving the Christmas Box, and about the time I reach the door, I hear the blast of a horn and the skid of tires on wet asphalt. I spin to see a big Dodge Ram 3500, jacked up on chunky tires, come sliding to a halt just inches from the scruffy dog, who appears to have frozen in fright directly in the middle of Main Street while it was apparently following me home. My heart clenches.

“Oh God,” I mutter, moving instinctively toward her. “Come here, girl. Come on!”

The silly dog finally gets hold of her senses and bounds toward me as a burly, bearded guy yells out the driver’s side window, “Keep your dog out of the street, idiot!”

“She’s not mine,” I say, but too low for him to hear since it hardly matters.

He screeches off as I stoop down to the dog’s level. She’s shivering, so I pet her and try to calm her down. “You’re okay, girl. You’re all right,” I hear myself cooing to her like I probably haven’t to an animal since I was a kid. We always had some mutt or another around, but they were always doing things to make Dad yell at them—peeing on the floor, for instance. That’s why I never liked them much—they seemed bound for trouble and gave Dad one more reason to be mad.

That’s when I realize I’m just as shaken as Marley. I’m vigorously smoothing the damp fur on her head and neck with both hands, my heartbeat finally starting to slow down. Poor dog is wet and probably cold.

And then it hits me. I’ve started thinking of her as Marley, that fast.

This is all Lexi’s fault.

When a drop of moisture lands on my cheek, I raise my gaze to see that it’s started snowing again. Great, just great.

Then I look back to the dog and roll my eyes. “Guess this means you’re coming in.”

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