Page 5 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

Mud. Of course it had to rain today. Muddy paw prints stamp my suit, and I wince as each new mark feels like an accusation, a reminder of how ill-equipped I am for what comes next.

“Damn it, Baxter.” But there’s no heat in my words, only a tired resignation.

He sits, tail wagging a hundred miles an hour, not caring one bit about what he just did.

“Guess you’re ready to go home, huh?” I try to brush off some mud, but it does no good.

“Oh, sorry, Isaac!” Trudy bustles out the door. “Baxter, inside! Come!”

The dog listens to her, and I trail behind the two of them. Trudy’s husband William is in the foyer, putting together a pile of things: dog bed, food, toys.

I arch an eyebrow. All of that is for the dog? It might not even fit in my car.

“Isaac.” William reaches out to shake my head. “How are you holding up?”

“Good.” I withdraw my hand, not wanting to have this conversation about grief, about missing someone. Not here, not now.

Not ever.

“Where’s his leash?” I ask, looking around for it.

William hands it over, but there’s some hesitance there. Trudy’s eyes are pools of worry as she looks from Baxter to me. William stands beside her with creased brows. There’s an unspoken question there, an uncertainty that seems ludicrous considering the circumstances.

“I’ll take good care of him,” I assure them, injecting a confidence into my voice that I scarcely feel. “He was Dad’s dog. He’s all I have left of him now.”

Their concern doesn’t wane, but they nod, and we begin the solemn ritual of transferring Baxter’s life into the back of my car. His bed, a tattered thing that smells of comfort and memories, his food — a reminder that responsibility doesn’t clock out — and his toys, squeaky symbols of simpler joys. They fill the space behind the seats, turning my vehicle into a makeshift kennel.

God, it’s gonna smell in here.

“Drive safe, Isaac,” Trudy says, her hand lingering on the door before she closes it. “And remember, he’s had a rough time too.”

I bite my tongue.Seriously? Now we’re supposed to worry about the dog’s mental health?

“Thanks,” I tell them again.

The ride home is anything but smooth. Baxter is a flurry of fur and restless energy, bounding from seat to seat as if chasing ghosts. At one point, he vaults into the front, his paws landing heavily on my lap, nearly sending us swerving into the next lane.

“Damn it, Baxter!” My heart jackhammers against my rib cage, adrenaline pumping as I shove him off of me and into the passenger’s seat. “Stay, okay? Just… stay.”

But Baxter is deaf to my pleas, his nose pressed against the window one second, his tail sweeping across the dashboard the next. It’s like watching a living storm, and I’m out at sea without a compass.

The city lights blur by, and with each erratic movement from Baxter, I’m reminded how out of my depth I am. Once upon a time, Dad would have known how to calm him, would have whispered words that made sense to a canine. But here I am, floundering, trying to steady a ship that was never mine to captain.

We survive the drive with no further scares, and as I pull into the underground parking of my building, Baxter finally settles — a warm, panting presence beside me. Putting his leash on, I grab his bed and bag of food. I’ll come back for the toys tomorrow.

At least I’m home. After this rough day, I have my own bed to look forward to. Baxter’s nails click on the marble floor as we cross the lobby, his body hunched, tail tucked.

We approach the elevator, and he hesitates at the threshold, a whine trembling from his throat. I can almost feel the electric hum of his nervous energy transferring to my skin. And then, as the doors close, trapping us in the mirrored box ascending to mypenthouse, he lets out a distressed bark before squatting. The warm scent of dog urine cuts through the air.

“Damn it, Baxter.” Frustration knots in my chest — at him, at my dad, at this whole situation. Kneeling, I mop at the mess with disposable wipes I’ve pulled from my pocket, the ones meant for polishing shoes, not cleaning accidents.

While I’m crouched, focused on erasing traces of imperfection from the polished floor, the elevator doors open and Baxter sees an opportunity. He darts into the hallway, leash trailing after him, running like he’s being chased by a predator. I curse under my breath, abandoning the soiled wipes, and chase after his retreating form.

“Come back here!” It’s laughable, really, how quickly control slips through my fingers these days.

I round the corner just in time to see Baxter paused and sniffing at a neighbor’s door. Taking advantage, I scoop him up, his body heavy against my chest. He licks my face, and for a brief moment, I consider just leaving him here. Someone will find him and give him a good home, and then I’ll never have to worry about him again.

But I can’t do that. My father’s lawyers are watching, and if I break the terms of the clause, the company will be ripped from my fingers.

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