Page 2 of Marcelo

The dog wraps his leash around both of us in a dizzying spiral. I lose my balance, and for a split second, I see Mr. EmergenSEA’s eyes widen in surprise before we both crash to the ground in a jumble of limbs and fur.

Pinned awkwardly beneath him, I look up into his eyes. For a moment, time freezes. There’s a strange kind of electricity in the air, and it’s not just static from the dirty carpet.

I’m the first to break the silence. “Well, this is certainly one way to meet your co-worker.”

With a grunt, he untangles himself and stands, offering me a hand up. “Winifred, right?”

I stand, smoothing my dress and trying not to stare too deeply into his captivating brown eyes. “Yes. Everyone calls me Winnie, though.”

“I'm Marcelo," he says with a nod.

I notice my furry troublemaker sitting a few feet away, wagging his tail as if he just orchestrated the most successful matchmaking attempt in history.

"Looks like he thinks he's done a good job," Marcelo observes, glancing at the dog and then back at me.

I kneel to untangle the leash. "He's just enthusiastic about making friends, like his foster mom."

Marcelo smirks, that same enigmatic glint back in his eyes. "Clearly."

I secure the leash and call the dog over, who obediently trots back to me, his tail still wagging. Marcelo watches the whole exchange, and I can't help but feel that his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary.

And then he's all business again, returning to his clipboard as if nothing happened. "We have a specific protocol we need to follow for setting up the shelter," he says, not even glancing in my direction again.

I roll my eyes. Just my luck to get paired with a rule-stickler when all I want to do is jump in and help. "Great, can't wait," I mumble, my voice heavy with sarcasm I don't try to hide.

Marcelo gives me a long look, and for a split second, I see a glint of something—amusement? annoyance?—before he turns away.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

Chapter 2

Marcelo

The first alarm rings at 5:30 a.m., labeled "Exercise," and I'm up, turning it off before it can ring again. I don't linger in bed; it's a waste of time. The second alarm goes off two minutes later as a backup, but I'm already pulling on my clothes.

Once dressed, I make my bed—hospital corners, everything neat. My roommate back in college used to tease me about it, but efficiency and order make for a smooth life. At least, that's the idea.

In the kitchen, I measure out my oats, water, and a scoop of protein powder. While that's cooking, I prepare my coffee, exactly one tablespoon of ground beans to two cups of water. No sugar. No cream. Nutrition is fuel, not a dessert buffet.

While I'm eating, I go through my plans for the day. The shelter, protocols, and checklists sit in the forefront of my mind. Hurricane or not, I want everything to run like clockwork. Especially with the unpredictability of animals and, now, the added variable of Winnie.

I think about the scene at the shelter yesterday, how Winnie and I literally crashed into each other. She's attractive, no question about it. But it's not just her looks; it's the spark in her eye, that life she radiates. I remember how her eyes locked onto mine in that moment of unintended closeness, a blend of embarrassment and something more electric.

Despite myself, despite my plans and schedules, I felt a jolt of something unfamiliar. Intriguing, but risky.

But it doesn’t matter. I can't afford distractions, not when there's a hurricane on the way. Not when there are lives—human and animal—depending on the efficiency and effectiveness of the shelter's operations.

And yet, Winnie’s laughter rings in my mind, a counterpoint to the stern rhythm of protocols and responsibilities that usually compose my thoughts. For a moment, I entertain what it would be like to loosen up a little, to let some spontaneity into my rigorously planned life.

But then I remember my ex glaring at me from across the room. "You can't schedule love, Marcelo," she'd said, frustration steaming from her every word. I'd responded by pointing out our shared Google Calendar, every date and outing neatly blocked out.

The relationship didn't last much longer after that.

Shaking the memory away, I glance over at the clock. Right on schedule. Before I step out the door, I grab my clipboard with the day’s tasks and notes for the shelter.

Contingencies for the hurricane are in a separate section, color-coded. I'll go over them again when I get to the shelter, and probably two or three more times throughout the day.

You can't control nature, but you can damn well be prepared for it.

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