Page 6 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

“Let’s try this again,” I say through gritted teeth as we enter the penthouse.

It’s a space designed for luxury, not for a rambunctious dog. Baxter scurries off, nose to the ground, and I tense, prepared to have to intervene again.

He sniffs at the books on the coffee table, the leather couch, the curtains that frame the cityscape beyond the windows. He’s not peeing on anything, though, and that’s a good start.

Realizing I left his stuff in the elevator, I leave with a groan, call the elevator, and retrieve the bed and food. When I return, Baxter has pulled the cushions off the couch.

“No,” I tell him, putting the cushions back where they go. He responds by shoving his wet nose in my face.

“Here. Drink some water.” Filling a bowl, I put it on the floor for him, then just stand there in the kitchen.

Scrubbing my face, I remind myself of the simple routine. Open the fridge. Pull out a dinner.

It’s a minimal plate — grilled salmon with a side of asparagus — meal prep from a chef who knows my palate better than I do myself. The digital numbers on the microwave count down, and a soft ding signifies it’s time to eat alone again.

This time, though, I have an audience. A golden head tilted to the side, tongue rolling out of the gaping mouth.

“I don’t think so.” Tearing into his food bag, I pour Baxter a full bowl. He sniffs at it, unimpressed, then turns his attention to the couch.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Your bed, remember?”

I point to the plush dog bed nestled in the corner, an offering to make this place feel more like home for him. For twenty seconds, he complies, burrowing into the fabric, a temporary truce between us.

But Baxter is a creature of comfort, and the allure of the couch beckons. Before I can finish my first bite, he’s back up there, claiming it as his own. I sigh, the sound heavy.

Fine. Whatever. What’s one more thing out of place? The couch will smell like dog, but my car already does.

With the day pressing down on my shoulders, I finish my food then rinse my plate and leave it in the sink. Tomorrow is another day. Another day that will take me a little bit further from my dad’s death. From my dad’s life.

My chest tightens, but I ignore it, stripping my clothes as I walk to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower cascades over me, but it does little to wash away the weariness. Droplets mix with the grief that clings to my skin, a reminder of how everything has changed. I stand there until the steam blurs my reflection in the glass and I’m not sure what I feel the most.

Is it sadness over losing my dad? Anger at him for burdening me with Baxter? Frustration at myself for being so easily affected?

Bed calls to me like a siren’s song, the sheets cool and inviting. As I crawl under them, I allow myself a sliver of hope. At least Baxter is quiet. Maybe he won’t be so hard to take care of after all.

Sighing, I close my eyes and start to drift off to sleep — until a crash splits through the air, quickly followed by the sound of paws scampering across the hardwood floor.

Cursing, I squeeze my eyes shut. That was definitely glass. Which means it was definitely my artisan vase that cost nearly ten thousand dollars.

Tossing the covers off, I trudge into the living room to clean up the latest mess. “Welcome to your new life,” I mutter to myself.

Hope you’re happy, Dad.

CHAPTER 4

ISAAC

Iwake to the acrid stench of destruction. My eyes snap open, and the sight that greets me is nothing short of a war zone. Baxter, my inheritance in canine form, has turned the living room into his personal battlefield.

The couch, once a pristine piece of designer furniture, now lies in tatters, its innards spilling out like the aftermath of a plush massacre. And there, nestled among the chaos, is a pile of dog poop.

“Damn it, Baxter,” I mutter, but the fury brewing inside me isn’t solely reserved for the dog.

It’s my father’s last laugh from beyond the grave.And how often do dogs even need to go out, anyway?I realize I have no clue, and the magnitude of my ignorance presses down on me. I’m as much to blame for this situation as my dad is.

With a sigh, I clean up the mess. Baxter sits there and watches, panting, not showing one bit of remorse.

“That couch was custom-made,” I tell him.

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