Page 110 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

We move down the corridor, stopping at each kennel as Duke provides a running commentary on every dog’s potential merits. Thatcher, ever practical, asks questions about temperament and exercise needs, while I find myself drawn to the quieter ones, the dogs whose eyes hold stories they can’t tell.

“This one looks like he could keep up with Duke,” Thatcher says, nodding toward an athletic-looking shepherd mix that’s bouncing off the walls of its enclosure.

I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe a little too much energy? I don’t think our backyard is big enough for his parkour ambitions.”

A shelter volunteer approaches us with a clipboard and a smile. Her name tag reads “Katie,” and she has the kind, weary look of someone who’s seen too many animals in need and not enough happy endings.

“How’s it going over here?” she asks, her eyes warming as she spots Duke’s enthusiastic nods.

“We’re doing great,” Thatcher answers. “Ideally, we’d love a medium-sized dog, good with kids and other dogs.”

“And not too old,” Duke pipes up, “but not a baby either.”

I ruffle his hair. “We figured a dog around two to five years old would be perfect—past the chew-everything-in-sight puppy stage but still young enough for Duke to grow up with.”

Katie nods, her smile widening. “I think we’ve got quite a few who might fit the bill. Have any caught your eye yet?”

Before we can answer, I feel a tug on Biscuit’s leash. My little fluffball, usually so well-behaved, is pulling toward the end of the corridor with uncharacteristic determination.

“Biscuit, heel,” I command, but he ignores me completely—something he never does. “What’s gotten into you?”

Thatcher’s eyebrows lift. “I think your dog has opinions about our new addition.”

We follow Biscuit’s lead, Duke skipping ahead, his curiosity piqued by this break in routine. Biscuit leads us to the very last kennel, tucked away in a corner. Unlike the other dogs who rush to the front of their enclosures, tails wagging and eyes hopeful, this kennel seems empty at first glance.

But as we peer in, I spot her—a medium-sized dog curled into herself at the back, her honey-colored fur dull in the fluorescent lighting. She doesn’t even lift her head at our approach, doesn’t wag her tail, doesn’t even seem to register our presence.

Biscuit lets out a small whine, pressing his nose to the bars. To my surprise, he lies down right there, trying to push his snout through the gaps. It’s so unusual for my normally bouncy pup that I glance at Thatcher in confusion.

“What’s her story?” I ask Katie, who has followed us with a shadow crossing her face.

She sighs, the sound heavy with untold heartache. “That’s Maple. She was rescued from a puppy mill two weeks ago. We estimate she’s about four years old, but it’s hard to tell—her body shows signs of multiple litters, probably from the time she was barely more than a puppy herself.”

“She looks so sad,” Duke whispers, pressing his small palm to the bars.

“She is,” Katie confirms, her voice softening. “Some dogs bounce back quickly once they’re out of those situations, but others...” She shakes her head. “Maple hasn’t shown any interest in other dogs, people, toys—nothing. It’s like she’s given up.”

Something twists in my chest, a deep ache that resonates through my bones. I think of Thatcher when we first met, so closed off, so wounded by his past. I think of myself, hiding behind fluff pieces and food reviews, afraid to chase my real dreams.

“Has she been checked medically?” Thatcher asks, his voice carrying that edge it gets when he’s trying not to show how much he cares.

“Complete workup.” Katie nods. “Physically, she’s well. It’s her spirit that’s broken.”

Biscuit whines again, louder this time, and begins pawing at the bars separating them. The sound finally draws Maple’s attention—just the slightest tilt of her head, but it’s something.

“Can we meet her?” I find myself asking. “In a play area, maybe?”

Katie hesitates, her pen tapping against her clipboard. “You can, but...I don’t want you to get your hopes up. She hasn’t engaged with anyone yet, and we’ve had some of our most experienced volunteers work with her.”

“We’d still like to try,” Thatcher says, his hand finding mine, squeezing gently. He knows me well enough now to read the determination in my eyes.

“Please?” Duke adds, his green eyes wide and pleading. “Maybe she just needs friends.”

Katie’s resistance melts under the full force of Duke’s earnestness. “All right then. Follow me to the meet-and-greet room, and I’ll bring her in. Just...prepare yourselves for not much to happen, okay?”

As we walk toward the playroom, I feel Thatcher’s eyes on me. When I glance up, his mouth quirks into that half smile that still makes my heart skip.

“What?” I ask.

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