Page 29 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

He kisses me, a lingering promise of more to come. "Text me when you get home."

I float through my afternoon appointments, distracted by memories of the night before and anticipation of the evening to come. My last client of the day is Mrs. Pemberton and her yappy Pomeranian, Precious. As Precious runs through his paces (badly), Mrs. Pemberton gives me a knowing look.

"You seem different today, Jessica," she observes, her voice dripping with curiosity. "Positively glowing."

I feel my cheeks warm. "Just had a good night's sleep." Complete lie. I had nearly no sleep at all. In fact, I hope to run home and take a nap before dinner. I definitely won’t have the energy to keep up the pace we set last night on four hours of sleep.

"Mmhmm." Her knowing smirk tells me she doesn't believe me for a second. "And does this good night's sleep have a name?"

Before I can formulate a deflection, my phone chimes with a text. I glance at it automatically. Unprofessional, I know, but I can't help hoping it's from Sean.

It is.

Sean: I enjoyed last night. Can’t wait to see you again.

My heart does a little flip. "Sorry about that," I tell Mrs. Pemberton, tucking my phone away. "Where were we?"

"You were about to tell me about your new gentleman friend," she says with a grin. “The one I assume just texted you. At least, that’s what the blush on your face is saying.”

I laugh, unable to deny it any longer. "Let's just say Precious isn't the only one learning new tricks these days."

CHAPTER 8

Inever texted him back. Cold feet? Maybe. Second thoughts? Partially. Does he really want this? Me? After the third missed call, I shoot him a text and let him know we can talk on Wednesday.

Three days pass without contact from Sean. I stick to my "we'll talk Wednesday" ultimatum, and he respects it. There’ve been no calls, no texts, no showing up at my doorstep demanding to know why I’ve suddenly stopped talking to him. Part of me is relieved at the space to think. Another part, the part that misses him with a physical ache, is disappointed.

By Wednesday morning, I'm feeling a kind of resigned determination. We need to talk, but first we need to do our jobs. Lucky deserves that much, at least.

I arrive at Sean's exactly on time, my professional mask firmly in place. My outfit is deliberately bland, khaki training pants, a plain navy t-shirt, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Nothing provocative.

When he opens the door, the sight of him hits me harder than expected. He looks tired, shadows under his eyes suggesting he hasn't been sleeping well. His usual impeccable appearance is slightly rumpled, as if he dressed hastily.

"Jessica," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Come in." I find myself longing to hear him refer to me as princess again. I mentally chide myself. Professional.

Lucky has no such restraint. He bounds toward me with his usual enthusiasm, nearly knocking me over in his excitement. I drop to my knees, greeting him with the affection I'm not sure I can show his owner right now.

"He's missed you," Sean says quietly.

I straighten up, meeting his gaze. "I've missed him too."

The unspoken hangs between us: And you? Have you missed me?

"Should we begin?" Sean asks, all business.

"Of course." I set my training bag down. "What have you been working on this week?"

For the next forty-five minutes, we maintain the charade of normalcy. I demonstrate new training techniques, Sean follows my instructions with his usual precision, and Lucky performs admirably, clearly happy to have both his humans together again.

The tension between us is palpable, every accidental touch electric, every glance loaded with unspoken words. But we're both too stubborn, too hurt, to break first.

Finally, Sean sighs. "This is ridiculous."

"What is?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means.

"This." He gestures between us. "Pretending everything's fine when it clearly isn't."

"We're being professional."

---