Page 111 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

“Nothing,” he says, but his eyes tell a different story. “Just thinking about how some strays find their way home in the most unexpected ways.”

I know he’s not only talking about Maple anymore. He’s talking about all of us—the way we’ve cobbled together this family from broken pieces, the way we’ve healed each other’s wounds without even trying.

I lean against him briefly as we enter the bright, toy-scattered room. “Some strays are worth waiting for,” I reply, feeling his arm slip around my waist.

Duke’s already exploring the space, picking up tennis balls and squeaky toys, his voice a running commentary on what he thinks their new dog might like. Biscuit watches from beside me, unusually subdued, his eyes fixed on the door as if willing Maple to appear.

“Do you think she’ll like us?” Duke asks suddenly, his brows furrowed with worry.

Thatcher crouches down to his son’s level, his hand steady on the boy’s shoulder. “I don’t know, buddy. But wecan try to show her that she’s safe with us. Sometimes, that’s all a scared heart needs—to feel safe.”

He catches my eye over Duke’s head as the door opens. Katie appears with Maple on a leash. The dog follows reluctantly, her head down, her steps hesitant. Up close, I can see the scars on her muzzle, the way her ribs still show slightly beneath her coat. But there’s a quiet dignity to her, a gentleness in her amber eyes that tugs at something deep inside me.

“Here we go,” Katie says softly, closing the door behind them. “Keep in mind that sometimes dogs like this just need a family to take a chance on them. Some bonds take longer to forge than others.”

We settle on the floor, Thatcher and Duke and me, forming a loose circle with Biscuit by my side. Katie unclips Maple’s leash, but the dog doesn’t move, just stands there looking lost in a room full of strangers.

“It’s okay, Maple,” I whisper, though I know my words mean nothing to her. “You’re safe now.”

And we wait, hope hanging in the balance, as Maple decides whether to take a chance on us—or whether some hearts are simply too broken to heal.

The playroom falls silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning unit overhead. We sit together on the floor, no one moving, barely breathing, as if Maple might shatter if we make any sudden movements.

She stands where Katie left her, still as a statue, her amber eyes fixed on some middle distance that none of us can see.

I glance at Thatcher, finding my own concern mirrored in the tight line of his jaw.

“Give her time,” Katie whispers, settling cross-leggednear the door. “Sometimes, it takes them a while to realize they’re allowed to exist in a space.”

Duke fidgets beside me, his small fingers plucking at the hem of his T-shirt. I place my hand over his, a gentle reminder to be patient. He nods, his eyes never leaving Maple’s still form. For a six-year-old whose default setting is perpetual motion, his restraint speaks volumes about how much this matters to him.

Minutes tick by, marked only by the subtle shifting of our bodies and the occasional sigh from Biscuit, who sits unusually still beside me. Just when I’m starting to think this was a mistake, that we’re putting too much pressure on this broken creature, my little dog makes his move.

Biscuit rises to his feet with deliberate slowness, his nails clicking softly against the linoleum as he approaches Maple. I hold my breath, ready to pull him back if she reacts negatively, but she doesn’t move a muscle. He stops a foot away from her, his tail wagging tentatively.

“Careful, Biscuit,” I murmur, though I’m not sure why. My dog has always had better instincts around other animals than most humans I know. And despite Maple’s depression, she doesn’t seem to have an aggressive bone in her body.

Biscuit inches closer, his nose twitching as he takes in her scent. Then, to my surprise, he sits directly in front of her and lets out a small, conversational whine—the same sound he makes when he wants me to share my dinner with him.

Maple’s ears twitch, the first real movement we’ve seen from her. Her eyes, previously so vacant, flicker with something that might be interest. Biscuit, encouraged, scoots forward on his butt until he’s close enough to touch her. Hestretches his neck out, his pink tongue darting to lick her muzzle.

I tense, expecting her to retreat, but instead, the miracle happens. Maple blinks, and her nose lowers to sniff him back.

“Oh my God,” Katie breathes, her clipboard forgotten in her lap. “That’s the first time she’s responded to anyone.”

Thatcher’s hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through my own with that quiet strength that’s become my anchor. We watch, barely daring to hope, as Biscuit continues his gentle coaxing. He stands up, turns in a circle, then plops down again, his entire body language saying, “Come on, this is fun!”

And then, like dawn breaking after an endless night, Maple takes a step. Just one, hesitant and unsure, but it might as well be a marathon for the distance she’s traveled from that lifeless creature in the kennel. Biscuit’s tail thumps against the floor, his entire body wiggling with encouragement.

“Dad, look,” Duke whispers, his voice tight with excitement. “She’s moving!”

“I see, buddy,” Thatcher replies, his own voice unusually soft.

Biscuit rises again, taking a few playful steps backward, then forward, enticing Maple to follow. She does, her movements stiff and uncertain, like she’s forgotten how her legs work. But she’s moving, one paw in front of the other, her nose stretching toward Biscuit.

I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and blink rapidly. Beside me, Katie isn’t even trying to hide her emotion, tears sliding freely down her cheeks as she watches the transformation.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, her voice choked. “We’vehad professional trainers try to reach her, and your little dog...”

---