look . . . really familiar. And I know I saw you the other day, but I don’t think that’s it. . . .”
I nodded, taking a breath, prepared to jump right in. Topher would never tell people where they knew him or his mother from, would just look at them blankly like he had no idea as they stumbled through their polite confusion and leading questions. But I always nipped it in the bud. Even if it turned out that wasn’t what they were asking—because I actually knew them from mock trial semifinals, or something—I always led with my dad’s job. It was easier, and that was usually what people were trying to pin down anyway. I was on the verge of saying what I always said—My dad is Congressman Alexander Walker. Maybe you’ve seen me in his campaign ads?
But then I remembered the conversation I’d had with Maya and how now, in the wake of this scandal, the thing I’d been saying for most of my life whenever anyone asked about me—a description of my father’s job—was no longer relevant, or something I would want people to associate with me now.
I looked over at Clark, who was waiting for me to answer a not-that-difficult question, but then looked away. “Well—” I started, even though I had no clue what was going to follow this. Silence fell between us again, but I was saved from having to say anything else by Bertie flying back into the room. As though we’d discussed it beforehand, Clark and I jumped into action, moving toward the dog from opposite sides at the same time. This seemed to confuse him, and he froze, giving Clark the chance to grab his collar. Bertie, seeming to accept the game was now over, sat down and started enthusiastically licking Clark’s ear.
“His stuff is over there,” Clark said, pointing to a cabinet while clearly trying to keep Bertie at arm’s length and out of licking range. I walked over to it and pulled it open—it was stocked with all manner of dog paraphernalia. There were leashes and extra collars, bags of food and treats, and a monogrammed canvas bag that read BERTIE W. I looked at that for a moment, wondering what the W was for if Clark’s last name was Goetz-Hoffman, but then realized I had other things to focus on at the moment.
“Great,” I said as I set the leash I’d brought down on the counter. I didn’t know if dogs preferred their own leashes, but since Clark had shown me the Bertie cabinet, it would seem like he wanted me to use his accessories. I reached for the nearest one, then hesitated. “Is there one he likes best?” I asked. Clark looked at me, blank, and I added, “One that you’d like me to use?”
He shrugged. “I’m not really sure—like I said, I don’t know much about dogs.”
I nodded, trying not to let any annoyance show on my face. Bertie might have been primarily Clark’s parents’ dog, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to claim total dog ignorance. I knew that Bri would never have said something like that about Miss Cupcakes, and she was certainly no fan of that cat. “This will probably be fine,” I said, grabbing a long blue one with B.W. woven into it. Clark’s parents certainly seemed into their monogramming.
“So, uh, I didn’t think you’d be here,” Clark said as I knelt down to fasten the leash to Bertie’s collar. Clark was still holding on to it, and I looked up at him and realized just how close together we were. Clark must have realized this at the same moment, because he let the collar go and pushed himself up to standing. “I did the interview thing with—I think his name was Dave?—so I assumed he’d be the one to, you know, walk Bert.”
“We sometimes trade off,” I said, disappointment making my stomach drop. Why was I upset that he’d rather someone else walk his dog? I tried to tell myself it was because it would mean I’d miss out on getting my first regular client. But as I looked up at him, at his deep dimples and his unfairly long lashes, I knew that wasn’t really the reason. “But I can tell Dave you’d prefer he walk your dog. Happy to pass on the message.” I gave him a big smile, then looked down at Bertie, trying to mentally convey to the dog that this would be a