Page 26 of Perfectly Grumpy

That’s all it took for my sister to believe it was true.

“Are you dating him?” she asks, trying to hide the fragile hope in her words. She wants this for me. They all do.

Then I remember the first rule of PR:A well-told story can change everything.

And the story everyone wants to hear—the story that will solve everything—is Tate.

The lie slips off my tongue too easily. “Guess what, Liv? I have news.”

TEN

Tate

A week passes, and I stay away from Lauren’s office, hoping she’ll get overwhelmed with end-of-season assignments and forget this whole PR campaign.

No such luck. She’s already emailed me a checklist for when the motorcycle photos go live today, complete with strict instructions. I’m not allowed to say one word, even if someone confuses “your” and “you’re” in a way that makes my eye twitch.

Now all I can think about is how ridiculous I must’ve looked posing on a Harley I didn’t even ride.

I stop in Lauren’s office first thing, leaning against the doorframe with what I hope passes for casual indifference. “How much do I have to pay you to never post those pictures?”

“Sorry, I don’t take bribes,” she says, still typing.

“Oh, come on. Everyone has a price, Sunny. What’ll it be? One of those ridiculous coffee drinks you like? Or my eternal gratitude?”

“Fine.” She snaps the laptop shut. “How about you wearing chaps and a cowboy hat to the local retirement home for pictures with the ladies?” She folds her hands under her chin with a terrifying amount of sincerity.

“Today’s cowboys don’t actually wear chaps,” I say, correcting her.

“That isn’t even the point.”

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, trying Plan B—wearing her down by being annoyingly useful. “You know, I’m a great fact-checker. I could look the article over for you. Check your grammar, catch typos, offer helpful commentary.”

She opens her laptop and ignores me. “You’re keeping me from doing my work, Sheriff.”

“Man, you’re bossy,” I tease.

“And stay off the internet today.” She points a pen at me like she’s about to use it as a weapon. “Or I’ll make you do something seriously humiliating.”

“It’s bad enough you’re meeting me at the animal shelter in an hour. I feel like this screams ‘desperate athlete with an image problem.’”

Lauren lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. But if it works, who cares?”

“What ifIcare? What if I think it’s unethical to use innocent puppies for my personal gain?”

She stands and circles the desk, stopping just close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. “That’s adorable. Your ethical concerns have been noted and ignored. Now go get ready. You have puppies to snuggle.”

When I step inside the cement-walled shelter, the barking starts immediately. The dogs all know me as soon as I walk in, and they know that when I show up, they get play time.

“Hey, Tate,” says James, the shelter’s director, who could’ve retired ten years ago but is committed to keeping the under-resourced shelter going. “We got another new puppy today.” He gestures toward the back. “She’s a little shy, but I know you have a way with the nervous ones.”

“I think you just say that because you want me to keep coming back.”

James grins. “That might be true, but not everyone has the patience for a puppy—especially one that’s skittish. I just wish we could get some more donations in. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the place open if we don’t get funding.”

I frown, filing that information away. Maybe Lauren’s pictures will help the shelter. I glance over the notes on each dog. “Looks like Hank still hasn’t been adopted.”

Hank “The Tank” is a St. Bernard with a personality as big as his size and zero awareness of just how massive he is.

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