boss.” Wes gave me the stack of mail he’d been flipping through. “Mail from today. Thought you and Luna would be extra interested.” I grabbed it—the envelopes were all slit open. And inside each one: a check.
“Can you count these and send the total to Christina?” I said to Wes. “Add it to what Luna’s brought in from the website.”
It was hard to believe but we were getting closer and closer to filling the gap every day. A miracle if I’d ever seen one.
“Look at all these donations,” she exclaimed. “I knew you could do it.”
“You did it,” I shot back.
“Nope,” she said. “I merely took the pictures. What’s in the pictures is all you, Mr. Mason.”
I needed my cock to stop twitching every time she breathily referred to me as Mr. Mason.
“We make a good team,” I said, looking at the ground.
“I think so too,” she agreed, nudging my shoulder. “Now let’s go get you even more, okay?”
22
Luna
“Okay, but take a picture of me before we start,” I instructed Beck. I’d been prepared to haul bags of dog food or hose down kennels, but he’d asked me to help him with Penelope instead. She was less timid now, sitting up straight and panting a little as we settled into our usual corner. This time, Beck and I touched—shoulder to shoulder.
He took my phone. “Okay, but what’s interesting about this?”
I held out a long, skinny spoon and a jar of peanut butter. “Shows the process to potential donors,” I said. “Let’s your adoring public see that you know how to get dogs to trust you. Before this whole mess, my followers used to love to see those behind-the-scenes moments. Meetings, scientists working in labs, testing different products on consumers.”
His look was skeptical but he took my phone anyway. “How’s my face?” I teased, pursing my lips and tilting my head.
“Beautiful,” he said roughly. Click went the camera.
Did he just call me beautiful?
“Thanks,” I said. Interesting.
“You only have three left,” he said, holding up the requisite fingers. I mimed snapping a photo of him and he actually grinned.
“Okay, Grumpy Pants. Tell me what we’re actually doing with this jar of peanut butter.”
He touched the handle of the brush that lay between us. “I think she’d let us, specifically you, brush her today.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She trusts you already.”
That gave me a shimmery feeling all over my body. I could feel my phone vibrating, imitating my emotional response. But I chose to ignore it—I knew it was only hundreds of voicemails and emails flitting by, things that demanded my urgent attention or rapid-fire response. Ignoring them felt delicious, almost illicit. Since becoming a CEO, I never took vacations, even though self-care and adventure were very on-brand for me. But after a yoga class or a long hike, I was strapped back to my laptop.
These moments at Lucky Dog—these moments with Beck—felt stolen, pick-pocketed slivers of joy just for me.
“Do you really think so?” I asked, turning around to face him. He was almost too close. I could see the flecks of green in his dark blue eyes.
“You have a calming energy for her,” he said.
“Did Beck Mason say the word energy?” I teased. “You’ll start sounding like my parents soon.”
He chuckled, handed the brush to me. And held out the spoon. Over the course of ten long minutes, he and I sat in serene silence while Penelope ever-so-slowly crawled over to us.
It was a lesson in patience. It was only my body, connected to the concrete. The air on my skin, the sun warming my back. My shoulder, brushing against Beck’s burly one.
“There she goes,” he whispered, mouth at my ear. Penelope was eagerly eating peanut butter, body relaxed. “Food equals happiness for animals. Happiness equals trust. You brushing her while she’s eating should help her connect people to those feelings. Go ahead.”
I made a crooning sound. Penelope watched me, but with much less wariness than before. I pressed the brush to her fur and gently tugged through.
Penelope sat down.
“Is that okay?” I whispered, excited.
“Keep going,” he said.
I brushed her again and her tail wagged. I was aware that this interaction was probably brief—it wasn’t like Lucky Dog worked miracles. But I still kept my movements light, safe, gentle. She shivered a little. Made eye contact with me.
“She likes it,” I said, still whispering.
“She likes you,” he whispered back. “You’re doing a great job.”
My throat was as tight as could be. This connection with something more tremendous than myself, more tremendous than