The Foxe & the Hound Page 4

  “Because he’s so hot?”

  “Because he looks at me like I’m the scum between his toes!”

  “Yeah…I did notice that. Did you see his eyes though? They’re green—super cute with his brown hair.”

  “You aren’t helping.”

  “Oh right, sorry.”

  I scoot closer to her so I can see into the garage. Lucas and Adam are laughing as they set up the ping pong table, and Adam looks much more comfortable now that I’m no longer in his presence. Still, I need to convince him to be my client. “Do you think I should go in there and try to talk to him some more? Maybe grab him another beer?”

  Daisy points to where the first beer I brought sits on the railing, lonely and forgotten. “I think you should take a break there, champ.”

  I suddenly feel like crying. Actual fat tears are seconds away from falling down my cheeks. “I really need a new client, Daisy.”

  “Do you want me to buy something? I can get a condo downtown, how’s that?”

  I laugh and a half-sob spills out with it. “You can’t swoop in and fix all my problems. Helen put me on probation today.”

  “What?! You’re the best realtor she has. It’s not just about who can sell the most houses.”

  “I appreciate your support, but that’s exactly what my job is.”

  “Yeah, well everyone else who works there looks like a weird clone. My mom actually saw Sandra at the hair salon last week asking for ‘the Lori’. How weird is that?!”

  Usually that little snippet of gossip would have made me smile. Not tonight.

  “I think I’m going to head home.”

  She’s concerned. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. Stay here. Have fun with your guests.”

  She wraps me in a hug and I don’t pull away. I’m not a hugger, but then again, neither is Daisy. “If I can, I’ll put in a good word for you with Adam.”

  I cringe. “Don’t bother. I’ll find another client somewhere else. And hey, I’m showing Mr. Boggs some houses next week. Maybe he’ll actually buy something.”

  “Hey! Maybe he will.”

  That’s when I know Daisy really does pity me, because we both know Mr. Boggs isn’t going to buy a damn thing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ADAM

  I’m in Hamilton, Texas, for my family. My brother and his wife live here with my two nieces. My mom moved down here a few years ago, and when shit hit the fan in Chicago, it made sense that I would pack up and join them. I had other options: Los Angeles, New York, Hawaii—they need veterinarians in tropical paradises too. My family won out though, and I moved to the Lone Star state. I’ve been here almost a month now, and I regret my choice every day. It’s Saturday night. Yesterday, I was at that housewarming party for my neighbors, but now I’m grocery shopping, because that’s the kind of sad turn my life has taken. Back in Chicago, my friends are at the opening of a five-star restaurant, sipping sake—I know because they accidentally included me on the group text about the event. I had to remind them, for the tenth time, that I moved to Texas. They booed and kicked me out of the group.

  But I’m not bitter.

  I’m here for family.

  I weave through the frozen food section and remind myself again, I’m not bitter.

  I could have plans if I wanted them, but I don’t. I’m not in the dating game at the moment. I’m riding the bench, happily. There were a few women who showed interest last night at the party, and my sad, cold heart felt nothing for them. Well, that’s not all true. I did feel something for Madeleine, but I think that had more to do with annoyance than anything else. She has an uncanny way of grating on my nerves, and the fact that she just keeps popping up is getting ridiculous. I wonder if it’s a small town thing; I’m not used to it. I could go a year in Chicago without bumping into any of my friends unintentionally. By comparison, in the last few days, I’ve had the displeasure of crossing paths with Madeleine three times.

  I laugh out loud.

  Make that four times.

  There she is standing in the medicine aisle of the grocery store, wearing a pair of short daisy dukes and a white tank top. She has on brown leather flip-flops, and even from my spot at the end of the aisle, I can see that she’s painted each of her toenails a different color.

  Who is this woman?

  And why am I not pushing my cart away at this very moment?

  She reaches forward and inspects a box of Band-Aids, and the movement gives me an opportunity to check out her insanely sexy legs…and the matching skinned knees she is undoubtedly here to treat. A gift from Mouse, I’m sure.

  Half of me thinks it serves her right for adopting such an impractical dog, and the other half of me (the part still capable of human emotion) feels slightly bad that she’s injured.

  I glance away, toward the checkout. There’s no one in line. I could pay for my shit and be gone in ten minutes, or…

  “Adam?”

  I whip my gaze back and see her eyeing me suspiciously. I realize I do look odd, hovering there at the end of the aisle, so I push my cart forward until I’m standing right in front of her. She briefly glances over my groceries. There’s a ton of fruits and vegetables, a couple pounds of lean protein. By comparison, her basket is filled with apples, ramen, and what looks to be dusty Valentine’s Day candy on clearance. Makes sense considering it’s mid-May.

  “Oh…I was just going to tell the manager that these are probably expired,” she says, defending the heart-shaped Reese’s.

  I look away so she doesn’t see my smile. “You don’t have to defend your groceries against me.”

  She grunts under her breath, and it catches me by surprise. Every time I’m around this woman, she has a different personality. One second she’s hot, the next she’s cold. Last night when she brought me that beer, it almost seemed like she was trying to ingratiate herself to me. Now, she’s back to being cold, aloof.

  I should turn around and go checkout. After all, I’m not in the market for female companionship, friends or otherwise. Yes, I am aware of the fact that if I were looking for a woman, Madeleine would be my exact type. I’ve always had a thing for brunettes, and she wears her long hair down, loose and curly down her back, wild almost. Her skin tone is warm and inviting, and there are definitely freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her bare legs keep drawing my attention, and for some absurd reason, I can’t find fault with her mismatching toenail polish. It’s kind of endearing.

  More than all of that though, she has an air of unabashed confidence about her, like she’s never spent a single day uncomfortable in her skin. It’s sexy as hell.

  “You’re being weird.”

  I look away from her legs and stare up at the Band-Aids. “What?”

  “First I see you hovering at the end of the aisle, frozen in place, and now you’re here, completely silent. Are you about to have a breakdown or something?”

  I frown. “No. I was just…thinking.”

  She puts the carton of bandages back on the shelf and instead reaches for the generic box sitting beside it.

  “I take it my suit wasn’t Mouse’s only victim?”

  I glance up and see her eyeing me with barely contained disdain.

  “Listen, can you please spare me the lecture about what a terrible mistake it was to adopt him? I would do it again without a second thought.”

  I cringe. I suppose I have been a little tough on her, especially considering her intentions came from the right place.

  “You’re right, no lecture,” I begin, offering an olive branch. “You clearly love him, so there’s no point in trying to convince you to give him up.” Her eyes widen at the absurdity of that idea, so I continue, “He’s your dog.”

  She nods. “Yes. Exactly.” Then she glances down at her knees and sighs. “And yes, I’ve tried to train him to heel, but as soon as he sees a squirrel or a—”

  “Well-dressed stranger,” I supply, and am pleasantly surprised when she shoot
s me a wide smile.

  “Yes, exactly. Once he spots something he likes, he just takes off with no regard for the human he’s dragging behind him.”

  I nod. “It’s not unusual. All puppies are going to do that. It just wouldn’t be as much of a problem if he wasn’t so big.”

  She frowns and drops the bandages into her basket. “I swear he doubles in size every night.”

  “It’s not completely hopeless. There’s a puppy training class starting at the YMCA tomorrow night.”

  The words are out before I have time to consider them. Do I want her in my training class? Before tonight, I would have said no, but something about her sad skinned knees plays on my heartstrings—the few I have left.

  Her brows shoot up in surprise. “Really? Do you think they’d have room for one more addition?”

  Tell her no.

  Nothing good will come from this.

  You think she’s sexy, that’s why you care about her skinned knees.

  “Yeah.” I nod, starting to back away. “It should be fine.”

  Apparently my mouth isn’t connected to my brain anymore.

  She nods, her smile doing something weird to my insides.

  “Well thanks. I really appreciate it. I know we didn’t exactly start out on the right foot—”

  I’m scared she’s about to go down a road I don’t want her to, so I nod and cut her off. “That’s why we have two of ‘em. See you around.”

  I hightail it out of that grocery store before she can get another word in. I hate Texas. From now on, I’m driving one town over for my groceries. No more random run-ins with Madeleine Thatcher—though I guess random run-ins won’t matter anymore because I’ve just ensured that I’ll see her every week at puppy training class. Bravo, Adam.

  I wonder if it’s too late to move to Hawaii.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MADELEINE

  “Mr. Boggs, I assure you this house is up to code.” I rifle through my paperwork just to confirm. “Yes, see here, it was just inspected last month.”

  He shakes his head. “Inspections mean nothing. Inspectors are crooks, the whole lot of them. If we’re gonna start trusting inspectors, you might as well start showing me open caskets instead of open houses.”

  I barely manage to stifle a groan. Boggsy certainly has a way with words.

  He taps on the wall, trying to find a stud, and when he does, he looks none too pleased about it. “That doesn’t seem like sixteen inches apart. Shoddy construction, if you ask me.”

  I’m not shocked by Mr. Boggs’ assessment of this house. Over the last year, I’ve shown him no less than fifty properties, and he has found fault with all of them.

  “Perhaps if you shared your budget, we could narrow down our—”

  He waves away my question, as he does every time I ask it. Mr. Boggs isn’t concerned about budgets—he always says they’re like crabs in your craw. I haven’t quite figured out what any of that means.

  “I’ve told you, if it’s the right house, I’ll buy it,” he repeats for what has to be the hundredth time since our first meeting. Call me a pessimist, but it’s hard to believe him. He’s not the sort of dapper gentleman you’d find living in the nicer area of Hamilton. His jeans are worn. His cane—which he uses to favor his left leg—is peeling away at the handle, and I can’t be certain, but I swear the scent of Cream of Wheat trails after him like a bad shadow.

  I’m not just judging him by his appearance either. Mr. Boggs and I have sat down for many lunches to discuss housing options, and I can’t recall him ever picking up the tab. I have a growing suspicion that he’s either lonely, or just using me for free bacon and eggs at Pam’s Diner. But I refuse to give in. Without Mr. Boggs, I’d have no clients, and that’s too sad, even for me.

  “And you double-checked that this place hasn’t been constructed on an Comanche burial ground? No arrowheads or funeral mounds?”

  He’s being serious.

  I shake my head.

  “I searched through the old city building records at the library,” I repeat for the hundredth time—it feels like a personal mantra at this point. “The only thing notable about this plot was a big oak tree they had to cut down to build the house.”

  “Hmm, that’s obviously a bad omen,” he grumbles under his breath. “Trees are like—”

  “—like the Earth’s hats,” I say, finishing a bizarre sentiment I’d heard a half dozen times before. He nods approvingly before wandering off down the hallway. I chance a passing glance around the small bungalow I’m showing him today. It’s beautiful, originally constructed in the 1920s but completely remodeled in recent years. The previous owners had to get approval from the Hamilton Historical Society before beginning renovations, which means the bones of the house are still there, detailed and ornate. However, they’re not Mr. Boggs’ taste.

  “Not the right one,” he concludes with a thump of his cane on the hardwood floor. “Not even close this time.”

  I don’t want to be dramatic, but I swear I see my savings account dwindle just a little more in this moment. I haven’t had the heart to check its balance in a while; I think it would give me a heart attack if I did. Besides, it’s not Mr. Boggs’ problem I’m so strapped for cash. If he wants to look at a million homes and waste my time, that’s his prerogative. It’s up to me to find a new client though, one who will actually buy something.

  …

  I nearly forget about puppy training class. I stayed at the office late, cold-calling various leads around town. It’s my least favorite part of the job, but sometimes it can produce real results. In all, I set up three meetings for later in the week. Loretta Rae is looking to sell her modest townhome, Greg Van wants to upgrade to a bit more land, and Cameron Carr thinks he’s finally ready to “escape the rent trap and find an equitable investment property”. In the beginning, I’d have gotten my hopes up about all three potential clients, but I know better now. Loretta Rae will find some reason to become suddenly attached to her house and won’t want to sell for all the tea in China, Greg Van will see how expensive land prices are at the moment and suddenly find that he doesn’t mind what little land he currently has, and Cameron Carr just likes to show off vocabulary words he learns from skimming The Wall Street Journal every few weeks.

  Still, it’s something, and I won’t let my bubble burst just yet. I look at the small orange clock mounted in my cubicle and cringe when I see the time. It’s already half past five, and according to the YMCA’s website, the puppy training class starts at 6:00 PM. I have just enough time to run home, change, and grab Mouse and a granola bar on my way out the door. Dinner will have to wait.

  I take it as a good sign when my car leaps to life on the first turn of the engine. I smile over at Mouse, who is currently perched on the passenger seat, the whole upper half of his body hanging out the window. He loves car rides, and I’ve learned it’s best to just roll the window all the way down for him—otherwise I’m left with a whole mess of slobber to wipe off the glass afterward.

  The YMCA is across town, but it still only takes me ten minutes to get there. I’m surprised by the number of cars I see in the parking lot, and even more surprised when I step into the small gymnasium where the training class will take place. There are twelve metal chairs arranged in a semicircle, and all of them are taken. The room is made up largely of women about my age. I recognize most of them, but there are a few that must be new to town. I nod to Jessica and Valerie as I pass, though most of my attention is focused on keeping Mouse at bay. With so many dogs in the vicinity, he’s tugging on the leash and jumping, trying as hard as he can to get to them.

  “It’s not playtime, Mouse,” I hiss under my breath. He’s the largest dog in the room by a mile. Most of the attendees have brought in small poodle mixes, and though I’m hesitant to admit it, they look to be much easier to handle than Mouse.

  I find a nice spot on the ground beside the last chair and place Mouse on my left side, away from the tiny Chihuahua current
ly cowering under his owner’s chair. His eyes seem to be begging for dear life, but Mouse is lying on his side, trying to get as small as possible so the puppy might start to like him. Poor Mouse; it’s hard being the size of a bear.

  The Chihuahua’s owner scoots her chair away from us.

  “Oh, he’s really friendly,” I promise with a smile.

  And he is. For all his faults, Mouse wouldn’t hurt a fly—just his owner.

  “I have no doubt,” she replies haughtily, turning her attention to the woman on her right.

  Well then.

  For a few minutes, I focus on Mouse and try to get him to settle down. Once he realizes we’re staying with all these other puppies for a while, he might not feel like he has to OMG meet them all right this very second. I can feel him begging me to let him go play. His big eyes stare up at me, and then he lets out a hilariously dramatic groan. I rub his belly as a consolation prize.

  “Yeah, once I saw that flyer downtown, I knew I had to come to the class,” Chihuahua girl says to her friend.

  “Was that the one with his photo?”

  “Yes!” she replies. “It was just there at the bottom, but I saw all I needed to see.”

  They both laugh, and I pretend I’m not eavesdropping.

  “I heard from Cassie, who heard from Mary, that he just moved to town. Apparently he’s the new vet.”

  “Oh really?” her friend asks. “Looks like I’ll be taking Moxie in for monthly—no, weekly checkups.”

  Another round of annoying tittering follows, and for some reason I’m shocked that they’re talking about Adam. When he mentioned the training class yesterday, he didn’t mention he would be the one running it.

  That changes things. I’m honestly not sure I would have shown up had I known, but it’s too late now because Adam is walking through the gym doors with training supplies tucked in a bag over his shoulder.

  “Oh my word, he’s even better in real life,” Chihuahua girl whispers under her breath.