Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,25

and on.

So Beck pushing back on my stipulations didn’t actually bother me—that was merely business details to hash out. That was my daily life—I was used to that.

But the judgment on his face? That hurt more than everything else this week combined.

“You’re going to dial it back, right?” I asked—lightly, but with enough steel in my voice that he actually looked sorry. “Because five is a bit much right now after the day I had. Maybe a three?”

Beck nodded. “Do you want to go see Penelope?”

“Please,” I grinned. “Pretty please.”

“And I’ll aim for, uh… zero, actually, if that’s okay with you?”

“I mean, if you’re a zero on the grumpiness scale, where’s the fun?”

Beck actually chuckled. “Come on,” he said.

I followed him through the training field, back toward kennel #7. “Also, I’m sure you’re busy, right? Could Elián give me this tour?”

“Oh, it’s no… I mean, I wanted to. It’s no problem,” he said.

“Well then, sock it to me, boss,” I said.

“This field is where the dogs we’re working with go through obedience and trust training—getting them used to humans and other dogs. This ring of kennels is where they live. And as they graduate to different levels of training, they eventually work toward this.” Beck slapped a shoddy-looking building. “It’s a replica of a real house. The dogs we work with, they’re afraid of anything new—stairs, couches, being inside—and they’re not house trained. Abused dogs, stray dogs, it’s important that they feel safe before being adopted out. Gives them the best chance for recovery.”

I peeked inside, smiling at the realistic-looking living room they’d created. There was even a fireplace with a cozy rug in front of it. “I love it. What are Jem and Elián trained in?”

“They’re animal behavioral specialists. That’s how I met Elián. I got a job as a janitor at Miami’s SPCA. He was working there.”

“He’s your friend?” I asked.

“Best friend,” he said. “And co-founder, but he doesn’t like me calling him that.”

“He gave you the glory,” I said.

Beck looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure why. I’m a high school dropout who can barely string two words together.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re the right person to lead,” I said.

“Maybe.” His eyes widened before he looked away from me. Interesting.

Beck was the right leader for Lucky Dog. Sincere, clearly educated on what these dogs needed, and able to set them up for success. But he didn’t see himself that way.

“Let’s agree to disagree on that. Because I see a leader sitting in front of me,” I said. Beck, however, didn’t respond.

“So… how long do they stay here?” I asked, redirecting.

“Give or take thirteen weeks. We spend that time exposing them to humans they can trust. Love, maybe.”

“And they can stay even if it takes longer?”

“Until they find their home, yes.”

Tears sprang to my eyes.

“That makes me very happy,” I said. Beck gave me a tentative smile.

We’d reached Penelope’s kennel. She was curled in the corner but not asleep. Scared, on high alert.

“Oh, Beck,” I said softly. He reached out, as if to touch me, but then pulled his hand back.

“She’ll be okay,” he promised. “We’re going to work with her today.” He led us inside and we both sat gingerly, without making a sound. He scattered food all around us in a circle.

“The more she associates humans with food, the better. Food equals safety; safety equals trust.”

I wrapped my arms around my knees, again aware of the mud staining these brand-new, stupidly expensive yoga pants. It was a brand I followed obsessively—their founder was young and hip and almost unbearably trendy. When they’d reached out for sponsorship, I’d said yes enthusiastically, was willing to shill for their brand if they did the same for Wild Heart, obviously.

But as I sat in the hot sun with Beck, it was interesting to note how easily yoga-gear-branding opportunities dominated my attention more than my former passions about animals or the environment.

“How long do you usually sit here with each dog?” I asked.

“As long as it takes,” Beck said. “This is the tough part. It’s one step forward, two steps back for what feels like forever.” He was cradling a brush in his lap. I tapped it with my finger.

“We’re going to brush her hair?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It’s a way for dogs to bond with their humans. Sometimes. A lot of abused dogs are also smacked with brushes so I’m not sure how she’ll respond.”

That old, familiar fire surfaced in my heart—the same one that had directed me to found Wild Heart. “Do you