Page 26 of The Way You Hurt Me

But when her reply comes, it’s just a couple of words.

Willow: A job?

I choose to misunderstand the question.

Me: A gainfully employed activity. Ask your sister, she knows all about working for a living.

She’s faster this time.

Willow: You’re a dick. And why do you have a job for me? Don’t you have people for everything, down to wiping your ass?

I grin at the screen. That’s not a no. And she hasn’t blocked me yet.

Me: This is beyond their scope of capabilities.

Willow: What is it?

She’s curious. Of course she is. I could tell her all about it now, but something makes me want to see if I can get away with teasing her instead.

Me: Come and see.

Willow: Can I ask how long it’ll take at least?

That’s definitely not a no. In fact, it almost sounds like a yes.

I have to think.

Me: The weekend, with a possibility to extend. One thousand a day, cash, non-negotiable.

Willow: All right, I’m in.

Me: So easily convinced. What if I wanted you on your back for forty-eight hours?

Willow: You definitely have people for that.

Me: I’ll send my driver to yours in two hours.

I stare at the screen for longer than I care to admit. She’s coming here. To my house. This feels somehow both much too soon and far too late. And inevitable.

You’re not keeping her here,I remind myself.She’s only coming for the puppies.

Fuck.

The puppies are chaos.Tiny, fragile, and somewhat endearing balls of fur running all over the place. Ben, my assistant, has the foresight to arrive with supplies, and set up a puppy pen without which I would have lost my sanity—along with my mohair rug, in all honesty.

The vet he contacted comes along soon after to examine all of the pups.

“This one’s the mom,” she says, pointing to a white short-haired, five-pound, underweight thing. “They’re all old enough to have been weaned, but I don’t think their…previous owners bothered to transition them to puppy food yet. I don’t think any of them have been trained much, but they’re all relatively young. Underfed, but otherwise healthy. I’ll prescribe you a nutrition paste to supplement their diet.”

“Can you recommend someone who can help?” I ask. “A rescue or some such.”

She nods. “I’ll leave you a few names. But many rescues around the city are overwhelmed. The puppies should be adopted out easily enough, but the chances aren’t good for older, untrained Chihuahuas—especially skinny, unkempt ones.”

She’s trying very hard not to look too judgmental, but given her mouth is pressed in a thin line, I clearly read the unsaid,you’d be a dick to drop them off at a shelter where they’d just die.

I run my hand through my hair, sighing. “Someone’s coming to help. Any minute now. While they’re sick, they can stay, I guess. But I’ll need those names to know what to do with them after they’ve recovered. I’m not a dog person. A friend just found these and brought them to me. I want to help, but I’m away from home about eighteen hours per day.”

She nods, mollified. “I see. Well, it’s very generous of you to take on over half a dozen dogs out of the blue. I’d say, make sure the little ones are on solids, try to housebreak the three adults, and it should be relatively easy to have them adopted.”

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