no, they weren’t. You were so serious about it that you sucked all the fun out of it. Do you even want these animals to get homes?”
“Of course I do!”
“Uh-huh. As long as it’s Mother Teresa who adopts them.”
Shannon glared at him. “She’s dead.”
“Even better. The dogs would get to live with her in heaven. I hear they’re pretty responsible up there.”
“Listen, Luke,” she said. “My job is to move animals through here. Get one adopted before the next one shows up. And I do a damn fine job of it. So why don’t you just do your job and let me worry about everything else?”
With that, she turned and walked out of the kennel, leaving Luke frustrated about the whole situation.
He remembered back when he was just a kid working there, watching the more disadvantaged animals. He never would have told a solitary soul, but the injustice he felt when nobody seemed to want them had been overwhelming. He remembered an old cocker spaniel, a lot like Angus, who’d been abandoned there because of a host of health problems and ended up a permanent resident. He’d been well taken care of. Rita had made sure of that. But had he been loved the way a family would have loved him?
As a teenager, Luke had been way more screwed up than all of the animals put together, so helping them had been a burden he hadn’t been able to take on. But he wasn’t that kid anymore. He was convinced a lot of these animals were adoptable if the problem was approached the right way. And he just might be the guy who could pull it off.
When lunchtime came, Luke hopped into his truck and headed downtown. He parked on the square two doors down from Tasha’s shop. He saw her through the window sweeping up after her last customer. He remembered her as the girl in high school who spent hours reading fashion magazines and drawing faceless ultrathin models, wearing weird dresses, all over her notebooks. Now she was a hair stylist who wore ridiculous clothes herself, dressing as if she’d gone into her closet in the dark and put on the first three or four things she touched.
When Luke came through the door, she turned around, those big eyes widening with surprise. “Luke? I don’t have any appointments today. In fact, it’ll be Wednesday before—”
“I don’t need a haircut.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
He walked over to Tasha’s chair. “Do you have a dog?”
“Uh…no.”
“Why not?”
Tasha blinked with surprise. “I’m just not a dog lover. Or a cat lover, for that matter.”
“This is Rainbow Valley. All the downtown businesses have shop pets.”
“I have shop pets.”
“Where?”
“Over there,” she said, nodding at an aquarium sitting on a counter near the front desk.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. “Hermit crabs?”
“Hey, they’re pets. You know. Technically.”
“You need something a little more interactive than crustaceans. Come to the shelter this afternoon. I have the perfect dog for you.”
“No. I told you I don’t want—”
“Tasha. Trust me. When is your last client today?
“I won’t be finished until six thirty.”
“That’s perfect.” With luck, Shannon would be gone by then and he could implement his plan without her logical, rational, irritating interference.
“But I don’t want a dog,” Tasha said.
“I know. But I have a dog who wants you. I’ll see you at the shelter at seven tonight.”
That evening Luke figured he had about a fifty-fifty chance of Tasha showing up. Fortunately, Shannon had left the shelter ten minutes before Tasha might be arriving, which gave Luke time to hurry down to the kennel and grab Ginger. She barked her little head off right up to the moment he picked her up. Then she relaxed in his arms and enjoyed the ride back up to the office.
At exactly seven o’clock, Luke was relieved to see Tasha come through the door. In a ridiculous statement of fashion gone wild, she carried a huge orange handbag with designer crap all over it.
Perfect.
“Tasha, meet Ginger,” Luke said. “Ginger, this is Tasha. She’s going to be taking you home today.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Tasha said, looking warily at the dog. “I told you I’m not a dog person. I’ve never had a dog before, and I really don’t want—”
“But this is not your average dog. She’s very smart.”
“That’s fine. But—”
“She’s friendly, and she barely sheds at all.”
“Yeah, but—”
“She’s housebroken. Spayed. Has all her shots.”
“But I told you I don’t want—”
“And Paris Hilton has a dog just like her.”
Tasha froze, her already-wide eyes