Page 14 of Rookie's Redemption
"Tails and Paws, this is—" I juggle Princess while diving for the phone, nearly slipping on a suspiciously wet patch near the cat room. "This is Mia, how can I—"
"Is this the place with the puppies?" The voice on the other end sounds like it belongs to someone who thinks animals are accessories.
"We're a rescue shelter, not a pet store," I snap, my words slicing through the phone like a paper cut. Princess whimpers, and I immediately feel guilty. "Sorry, it's been a rough day. What can I help you with?"
"I want a small dog. Something cute for my apartment. Do you have anything in white? White would match my couch."
I close my eyes and count to three.
"Ma'am, we don't color-coordinate pets to furniture. We match animals with families based on—"
The line goes dead.
"Compatibility and love," I finish to no one, setting Princess down in her freshly cleaned kennel. She immediately goes to hide under her blanket fort, which honestly sounds like a solid life plan right now.
And it would be an even better plan if I had backup.
But Zoe had to leave early. Something about a dentist appointment or a math test or maybe a complete meltdown over fake eyelashes… Honestly, at seventeen, every crisis feels apocalyptic.
Either way, I've been flying solo since noon, which explains why everything has gone to hell in a handbasket.
I take a deep breath and look around.
The AC unit in the lobby sounds like a dying helicopter, blasting arctic air that has me shivering despite wearing three layers already. Meanwhile, the back kennels feel like a sauna designed by Satan himself. Sweat drips down my spine as I grab the mop bucket, which sloshes murky water onto my already-stained jeans.
This is glamorous. This is living the dream.
"At least the vet will be here soon," I tell Bandit, who's watching me from his emergency kennel with those masked eyes that suggest he's plotting his next escape. "Dr. Martinez will check on the lab's rainbow situation, and then maybe—"
My phone buzzes with a text that makes my stomach drop:Sorry Mia, emergency at the clinic. Can't make it today. Will reschedule. - Dr. M
"Are youfuckingkidding me?" I shout at the ceiling, startling a litter of kittens who scatter like furry pool balls.
This is when Hercules, the saint bernard mix who thinks he's a lap dog, decides to express his feelings about the chaos by howling like his heart is broken. Which sets off a chain reaction of sympathetic howling that would make wolves jealous.
I'm ankle-deep in kibble, covered in various bodily fluids from at least four different species, and my hair is doing that thing where it defies both gravity and good sense. The peanut butter smeared across my shirt—which is a long story involving a Kong toy and a very determined beagle—is starting to attract flies.
This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm a professional and this is my dream.
I'm wrestling with a bag of dog food when the front door chimes.
"Oh God. Didn't I lock that?! Please be someone normal," I mumble quietly.
I turn around, kibble still cascading from the torn bag like the world's least appetizing waterfall.
And there he is.
Ryder Scott, looking like he stepped off the cover ofMen Who Don't Belong in Chaotic Animal Shelters Monthly. Golden afternoon light streams through the windows behind him, creating this ridiculous backlit effect that makes him look like some kind of Roman god who took a wrong turn on his way to the gladiator ring.
His hair is perfectly messy in that way that takes normal humans thirty minutes and three different products to achieve. His shoulders fill out that gray shirt like he was carved from marble and then wrapped in the softest cotton money can buy.
And those jeans? They hug his thighs so tight makes my brain short-circuit.
Of course. Of course he'd ignore my pleas not to come here. And looking like that. Like a statue. A Roman one. And I am absolutely not wondering about the size of his... proportions.
"Rough day?" he asks, that easy smile spreading across his perfect face as he takes in the war zone that is my life.
I want to die.
