Page 2 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

Sean steps back, allowing me inside his home. It's exactly what I expected from the outside: sleek, expensive furniture, completely void of clutter, with a place for everything and everything in its place. It's beautiful, but feels more like a model showroom than a home where people actually live.

"He was my younger sister's dog," Sean says quietly as he closes the door behind us.

The change in his tone makes me turn. His face has shifted, a flash of pain crossing his features before he schools it back into neutrality.

"Was?" I prompt gently.

Sean runs a hand through his hair, confirming my earlier suspicion about why it's slightly mussed. "Diane bought him about four months ago. She always wanted a golden retriever; said they were the happiest dogs in the world." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Then she was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. It was... aggressive. She didn't have time to train him properly."

My heart sinks. "I'm so sorry."

He nods, his jaw tight. "She passed away three weeks ago. Lucky came to live with me because there was nobody else. I promised her I'd take care of him, but—" He gestures helplessly as Lucky zooms past us, skidding on the hardwood floor before crashing into a side table.

"You're not exactly a dog person," I finish for him.

"I like dogs fine," he says defensively. "From a distance. Or when they're well-behaved. I'm just not..." He sighs. "My job requires order. Structure. Predictability."

"And Lucky is none of those things."And neither am I.

"He's a furry tornado with separation anxiety and a penchant for destroying anything I leave within reach. Which, as it turnsout, is everything in my house. Including my expensive wooden blinds." He nods to the back window where a set of blinds is hanging haphazardly on the window. Clearly, Lucky had used them as a chew toy.

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "Well, you've come to the right place. Or, more accurately, I've come to the right place." I set my training bag down. "What do you do, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I work in cybersecurity for the government," he says. "I specialize in preventing hostile breaches in our defense systems."

"So, you protect us from bad guys trying to hack our nukes?"

He winces at my simplification. "Something like that."

"And yet, you can't control one little puppy," I tease him, enjoying the way his eyes narrow slightly.

"Hence why I called you," he says dryly.

"Fair enough. Would you mind giving me a tour? I like to see where the dog spends most of his time, what kind of environment we're working with."

Sean nods, gesturing for me to follow him. "This is the main living area. Kitchen's through there. I've tried to puppy-proof as much as possible, but he keeps finding new things to destroy."

As if on cue, Lucky gallops past us, something dangling from his mouth.

"Is that—" I start.

"My tie? Yes. Yes, it is." Sean's voice is so resigned I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing again. “I’ve bought him hundreds of dollars’ worth of toys, but the damn thing prefers my ties, my shoes, and especially pillows.”

We move through the house, with Sean pointing out various areas where Lucky has caused destruction. The house is beautiful but has minimal decoration. There’s nothing personal except a small silver frame on a shelf containing a picture of whoI assume is Sean and his sister, arms around each other, both smiling.

Finally, we end up back in the living room, where Lucky is doing zoomies from one end of the room to the other.

"Lucky, come here," Sean commands. "Come," he repeats, more firmly. Lucky pauses and tilts his head as if contemplating whether or not to obey and then zooms right on by. I hear the string of curse words coming from Sean’s mouth and bite back a laugh.

I train dogs, not men. But if I did? Sean Ferguson would be my most difficult case yet.

Not that I should be thinking about my client like that. I should be focused on assessing his golden retriever puppy. But instead, I'm watching Sean, all six-foot-something of him, standing rigidly by his spotless leather couch, hands clenched into fists at his sides like he's barely holding himself together.

Not because of me. Because of the dog.

“Lucky, no!” His deep command fills the space around us, but Lucky, bless his chaos-loving heart, does not give a single damn. He leaps onto the couch, paws skidding against the smooth surface, and then, oh, here we go, latches onto one of the decorative pillows and gives it a good shake.

Sean’s jaw tightens, and I bite back a laugh. “You said on the phone he had impulse control issues, but you didn’t say it was this bad.”

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