Page 4 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

“See you tomorrow, Ricki,” I say, more out of habit than certainty.

Will I even get paid for tomorrow’s hours?

It doesn’t matter, I decide. I need the money — Portland isn’t cheap — but I’ll show up regardless of whether the sessions are padding my paycheck or not.

“See you, Em.” She offers a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I step outside, taking a deep breath, looking up at the sky as if searching for an answer. But all I find there are fluffy clouds and silence.

The engine hums a low, monotonous song as I drive away from the shelter, my hands tight on the steering wheel. The image of the full kennels lingers in my mind, haunting me with the ghosts of wagging tails and hopeful eyes. I pull into the coffee-shop parking lot, the neon “Open” sign buzzing like an impatient reminder of reality.

I clock in for the closing shift, the familiar scent of roasted beans bitter in my nostrils. The whirr of espresso machines is usually comforting, but this afternoon it’s just noise distracting me from figuring out some way to get more funding for the shelter.

“Emily! Table four needs a latte!” My coworker’s voice snaps me back, her words sharp against my fog of worry.

I nod, setting to work, my movements mechanical. Milk froths, the steam wand hissing like a tired sigh. But my mind isn’t here — it’s pacing alongside Finn, trying to reassure him that tomorrow will be better, even if I don’t believe it myself.

In my distraction, the cup tilts, and before I can steady it, hot coffee cascades over the counter, a waterfall of wasted warmth. It pools around a woman’s designer bag, the dark liquid seeping into the expensive leather.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m so sorry!”

I grab towels, dabbing frantically at the mess, my cheeks burning. The woman’s eyes are cool saucers of displeasure, and I can feel her judgment soaking into me like the latte into her bag.

“Watch what you’re doing next time,” she says, her voice clipped and cold.

Embarrassment clings to me. I’m tired of this — of mopping up messes, both literal and metaphorical. I’m tired of the smell of coffee clinging to my skin long after my shift ends, of counting tips that barely cover bills, of feeling like I’m always one step behind where I need to be. Tired of squeezing the thing that really matters — helping dogs — into the hours in between.

As the last customers trickle out and the chairs are lifted onto tables, I lean against the counter, allowing myself a moment to breathe.What am I going to do now?The thought circles in my head, a vulture waiting for resolve to die. My heart still aches for the shelter, for the dogs whose names I know as well as my own.

If only I could find more private clients for my training business, then I could give at least a bit of the money to the shelter. Afford things here and there like medicine and foods for the animals who need special diets. But how? How do I reach out, make connections when every hour seems spoken for? Especially now that I’ll need to find a way to make up the difference I’m losing thanks to the county’s cut in funding.

I’ll think of something. I have to. That — or there will be a miracle, maybe; a stroke of luck or a chance meeting that could change everything.

I glance through the window at the starless sky, looking for a sign, a sliver of hope — for me, for Finn, for all the dogs who deserve more than what fate has dealt them.

“Please,” I say, my reflection gazing back at me, eyes full of silent pleas. “We just need a little help.”

CHAPTER 3

ISAAC

Following the meeting, the day passes in a weird fugue state. When I’m not at my desk, I walk around, finding myself at the coffee machine or in a supplies room without even remembering how I got there. I’ve accepted what my father has done, but I still don’t like it.

For some reason I still don’t understand, that man never liked me. Perhaps he even had it out for me.

Me, his son. His only child.

And what did I ever do? Absolutely nothing. In fact, I went above and beyond, constantly trying to gain his favor.

With the last task for the day finished, I close my laptop with a sigh, say goodbye to Carol, and head out. It’s nearly eight p.m. when I finally pull up to the Holt family residence, a cheerful two-story home that’s seen more laughter and life than my penthouse ever will.

I turn off the ignition and sit for a moment, staring at the quaint front porch. Baxter has been here since Dad passed away,my father’s friends caring for him. And now I’m about to walk through that door… and make that dog mine.

I can feel the reluctance coil around my spine, heavy as lead. I’m not looking forward to this one bit.

With a sigh, I push the car door open and step into the cool night air. The crunch of gravel underfoot feels loud, almost intrusive. Before I can even reach the front steps, the door swings open and there he is — Baxter, a ball of energy wrapped in golden fur, bounding toward me with oblivious joy.

“Hey, hey, Baxter, easy—” His paws hit my chest before I can brace myself, and I stagger back a step.

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