at the foot of her bed, which she’d have to change. Probably.
She sent Marco a text to give him a heads-up. After all, he was her roommate, and would be her housemate. He deserved to know they had a dog.
She made sure to add the most adorable picture she could manage with the text.
He responded.
You what!! What kind of weird-ass-looking dog is that? And why’s he so damn cute? Look what you do when I’m not around a couple weeks. Send more pictures.
She spent a happy few minutes texting back and forth before she settled down to—carefully—write the blog.
“Pictures of puppies never fail.” She glanced over—and of course, Bollocks was curled up on the bed. “I’m going to work on my book for a couple hours, then we’re going out. We’re getting you a collar, a leash, some toys—and a dog bed.”
He didn’t mind the collar, but he didn’t like the leash. While he didn’t put up a fight when she clipped it on, he looked at her with sad, sad eyes.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” She’d have sworn that’s what he thought. “And we won’t need it at the cottage. But we’re going to walk around the village now, and we’ll need it when we visit some sights I haven’t gotten to yet.”
He seemed less insulted by it when they walked, even preened when people stopped to admire him. He got to sniff at shoes, nuzzle kids, meet a couple of other dogs.
Breen told herself she was socializing him—as recommended—but she knew she was just showing him off.
She bought him chew toys, a bright red ball, and a small stuffed rabbit.
On the drive home, he sat in the back, a chew bone clamped in his teeth and his head out the window so his curls blew in the breeze.
Once home, she let him out for a run and a swim while she sat on the patio with her tablet. Since she hadn’t found him a bed, she ordered one online. And a few more toys. And chew sticks, and a dog tag with his name and her cell phone number.
“God, if I ever have kids, I’ll be a maniac.”
Fresh from the bay, Bollocks raced up to her, so she tossed the red ball. He just cocked his head at her. “You’re supposed to run after it, get it, bring it back to me so I can throw it for you again.”
She could all but hear him thinking What’s the point?, but he trotted to the ball, clamped it in his teeth, trotted back. She tossed it again.
After the first couple times, he seemed to get more into the spirit, gave serious chase.
“Okay, you’ve got it, and my arm’s worn out.” When she set the ball on the table signaling game over, he trotted toward the woods. He gave a bark, looked back at her.
“No, we’re not going there. I’m not ready. I’ve got laundry to do, and I’m going to write more. And . . . I’m just not ready. Let’s go in.”
When he came back, she patted his head. “Maybe tomorrow.”
But she had excuses at the ready the next day, and found it surprisingly easy to fill the time. Especially when she took a break from her novel to write a short story about the adventures of a magical dog named Bollocks.
She spent the day after that expanding the story as she realized it could be a book for middle schoolers. After all, she’d taught that age group, knew what they liked to read.
So she shifted happily between her novel, the children’s book, and the new routine with the dog himself.
Then on a bold summer day where she took her work out to the patio, Bollocks raced toward the woods, his happy barks a clear signal.
She wasn’t surprised to see her grandmother, and Finola with her, walk out of the woods.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They looked like ordinary women, Breen thought as she rose from the table. Maybe not ordinary, as both looked years younger than their ages. But they sure as hell didn’t look—not from her perspective—like a witch and a faerie.
Marg carried a pouch, and Finola a basket.
The dog greeted them with mad joy and affection while Breen struggled with trepidation.
“What a fine day for being out and about,” Finola said brightly. “And are you working here, darling? With us coming along and interrupting you.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Breen closed her laptop. “I meant to come back sooner, but . . .”
“You’re a busy one, aren’t