them before they can take a step into the house.
They practically charge inside, stopping long enough to fling their shoes across the floor.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “They’re really excited to meet Whiskey. But we haven’t told them yet that we’re adopting him. We wanted them to meet him first.”
I try smiling, but my lips don’t feel like cooperating. I nod instead.
Great. Now I’m a mute.
“Where is he?” Lizzie asks, reminding me of my students. She’s the same age.
“In the living room.” I point toward it.
We follow them and find the pair sitting on the floor next to Whiskey’s bed. With a little bark, he unfolds himself and steps over the side to the awaiting kids. They hold out their hands for him to sniff.
“Oh, he’s so adorable.” Mary crouches between her two kids and lets Whiskey sniff her hand. She then strokes him behind the ear, just like Chloe used to do.
As expected, he laps up the attention.
And my heart breaks.
In the short time I’ve been his foster daddy, his puppy teeth have dug into my heart the same way they do with his chew toys. And my cushions. And shoes.
Well, just about everything he can find.
I’ve fallen for him in the same way I’ve fallen for Chloe.
Okay, not quite the same way, but the sentiment’s the same.
The kids fuss over him, and he wags his tail at rapid speed. But then he wanders to me and parks his paws on my legs, tail still wagging. It’s his sign for “Daddy, I want up.”
I scoop him up and cradle him next to me. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes wide and hopeful.
He reaches up and licks my face.
This sets the kids off giggling.
I stroke his soft copper-colored fur, the shade slightly lighter than Chloe’s hair.
A string of memories decides this is a good time for a memory-lane montage. Of Chloe, when we collected Whiskey from the vet. Of her coming up with his name. Of her loving him unconditionally like he deserves. Of him loving her the same way.
Of the way he made her laugh—how he made us both laugh.
The idea of giving him away is a punch to the gut.
There’s an old saying that claims if you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, they never were.
That might be true when it comes to humans, but I’m not sure how much it applies to a puppy. It’s not like he can dig under a fence and come bounding here if he wants.
“You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?” Mary says, voice soft.
I stroke Whiskey’s fur again and nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize he would grow on me the way he has.”
“That’s perfectly okay. Sometimes it takes the nudge of nearly losing someone to realize how much they mean to you.”
“You’re right. It does.”
In Chloe’s case, I walked away because it was easier than to risk losing her in the worst possible way.
But that’s not true for Whiskey. No one’s trying to kill him. He doesn’t have a contract on his head.
And despite his rough start, he isn’t attempting to push me away out of fear of loving someone.
I ignore the voice in my head, pointing out the irony of the last part. Pointing out that I’m as guilty of doing that to Chloe as she is of doing it to me.
30
Landon
“Whiskey,” I call out. “Walk?”
The bundle of energy comes barreling around the corner, his claws slipping on the hardwood floor.
Guess that answers my question.
He barks and jumps his paws on my legs. I bend down and attach the leash to his collar. His leg is fully healed now, which means we can go for a longer walk.
Which I desperately need.
And once I’ve done that. I’ll go for a hard run.
Emphasis on hard.
I open the front door and am brought up short. Jayden is standing on the stoop, his hand raised toward the doorbell. Sitting next to him, with his tongue lolling to the side, is Mojo, his goofy Mountain Bernese dog.
“Mojo wanted to visit Whiskey.” Jayden lifts his shoulders in a what-can-you-do shrug.
“Oh, he did, did he?” My gaze returns to his dog. “Is this true, Mojo? You begged Jayden to bring you over to visit Whiskey?”
“Woof.”
Whiskey barks excitedly in reply.
Okay, still not buying it.
“We’re just heading out for a walk.”
“Perfect. We’ll come with you.”
Not exactly what I’d planned, but that’s okay. I’m sure he’s dying to get back home to Isabelle, so he can screw her brains