Page 20 of A Furever Home
Neil pushed the stool up against my butt. “Sit down, stay put.”
I lost the energy to keep arguing. “All right.”
“Good.” Neil hesitated. “You know it’s because we all want you to get better, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go do your things.” I flapped my hand at him.
Neil went and did whatever, and I stewed in my own irritability, which was better than taking it out on a friend.
Thirty minutes later, my taxi pulled up in front of Brooklyn’s peach stucco house. My head was much better. Of course, recovery happened ten minutes after I left. I thought about turning around, but Neil would probably kick me back out, and I couldn’t deny I was beat and still aching everywhere. Just without the debilitating levels of vertigo.
I was still humiliatingly glad when the friendly driver, Carlos, hurried to open my door and helped me to my feet with a hand under my elbow. He waved off my thanks. “I know who you are. The shelter’s a good thing for Gaynor Beach. You heal up quick, now.”
Kind words were welcome right then, and I made sure my tip was generous.
Once the taxi had pulled away, I hobbled up Brooklyn’s front path and rang the doorbell. A whole bunch of barking answered me, including a warbling howl I recognized as Twain’s.
“Coming!” Brooklyn opened the door, grinning, and I was struck like a two-by-four to the brain with how attractive he was. Not model-pretty, but totally boy-next-door, his hazel eyes warm, smiling lips framed by his neatly cropped beard, a deep dimple carved in his right cheek and a shallow one in his left. He was taller than me even when I wasn’t leaning on a crutch, and lanky with legs that went on forever in snug-fitting denim. He had competent-looking long-fingered hands and big feet in black sneakers?—
I dragged my thoughts back to why I was standing here on his front step, leaning to one side like a drunken clown. “Hey, Neil thought a half day was long enough for me to work.”
“Neil?”
“My funding-and-volunteers coordinator, and my left hand at the shelter.”
One tidy eyebrow arched. “Left?”
“With Shane as my right.” I sighed. “Can I come in before I fall down?”
“Of course!” Brooklyn pulled the door open and stood back, a hand out in an offer of assistance.
“Thanks.” I tried to put sincerity into that. I didn’t have to be a jerk, and I had a feeling that sometime during the ten hours since he brought me home, fed me, helped me clean up, got me into sweats to sleep in, gave me a bed, and then did the same in reverse in the morning, and drove me to work, I’d probably been rude to this kind man. Maybe more than once.
When he’d shut the door, I said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but if I’m irritable or short with you, I don’t mean it.” My face flushed but I made myself admit, “It’s not about you. I yelled at a seventy-year-old volunteer today.”
“Ouch.” Brooklyn’s expression showed only compassion.
“I feel like crap.”
“You know what will make you feel better? A cup of tea, your pups and kitty, and some furry tail wagging. Come on.”
He led the way toward the back of the house. I’d only seen the kitchen, bathroom, and my bedroom so far, but when we reached the rear, I could see why he’d bought this place. What had maybe been a family room was now a wide-open space across the back half of the house. Patio doors opened to a shady backyard with three spreading trees, two fenced areas, and a row of big, covered kennels along the side.
Inside the house, four smaller dog pens lined one wall of the main room. The floor was some kind of rubbery tile, and a solid baby gate blocked the doorway. Brooklyn let us in, then made sure the gate was double latched.
I spotted Chili in the farthest pen amid a collection of toys and two beds. I called, “Hey, Chili baby.” She was chewing on some rubber Kong toy and barely lifted her head to glance at me before going back to her gnawing.
In the open indoor area, two other small dogs lay sprawled on big stuffed beds. The Japanese chin wagged his tail at me without getting up but the rat terrier with a graying muzzle came over to greet me, rising stiffly to put his front paws on my knee. Luckily the good knee.
“George, sit,” Brooklyn called. When the terrier dropped his butt to the floor, removing his paws from my leg, Brooklyn said, “Good job,” and tossed the elderly dog a treat. That got the chin out of his bed in a flash, and he was willing to run through his tricks, his rounded little body wriggling in eagerness for the tiny bite Brooklyn gave him.
“Come on out and see your other babies,” Brooklyn told me. “I let the bigger and more active dogs play outside unless the weather’s too hot or too wet.”
I crutched over and greeted Chili. I always made sure she knew she was my special girl, even if I wasn’t sure she cared. Then I followed Brooklyn into the yard.
He urged me to sit in a sturdy chair, then hauled over a patio table. Behind the inner play-area fence, Eb and Twain leaped and barked alongside two unfamiliar dogs who’d caught the excitement. Brooklyn set the table in place overlapping my chair. “Protection for that leg, you think?”
I watched Ebony bouncing his fool head off and said, “You’re a smart man.”
