Page 100 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
“Martha,” Jameson groans, his cheeks turning pink.
“What? It’s true. ‘Kevin would love this dog.’ ‘Kevin would think this is funny.’ ‘Do you think Kevin prefers golden retrievers or labs?’”
I’m grinning now, the biggest smile I’ve had in days. “You talk about me?”
“Constantly,” Martha says before Jameson can answer. “It’s adorable and slightly nauseating. Now, boys, the puppies are in Room 3. They need socializing, and frankly, I need five minutes where they’re someone else’s problem.”
She slides over two volunteer badges that Jameson swipes. He pins his over his left breast and then, with great care, pins mine in the same spot. “There,” he says. “I’ve pinned you.”
“Oh my God. Did you make aBye Bye Birdiereference?” I ask him in disbelief.
He blushes. “I may have been catching up on some of the classics lately.”
“I’m sure Ethan is loving it.”
“Oh, you have no idea. This morning, I caught him singing “How Lovely to be A Woman” as he got ready to head out with some friends.”
I snicker, and Jameson leads me down a hallway lined with kennel doors. Through the windows, I glimpse dogs of every size and color. Some bark as we pass, others choose to watch with curious eyes. “This is my favorite part,” he says, stopping at a door marked: Puppy Room - Enter at Your Own Risk.
He opens it, and we’re instantly swarmed.
Six puppies—some kind of lab mix, all gangly legs and oversized paws—attack our shoes with tiny teeth and enthusiastic tails. One immediately tries to climb my leg, another is attempting to untie Jameson’s shoelaces, and a third has discovered that my shin is apparently delicious.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, dropping to my knees. I’m immediately tackled by three of them, their tongues finding every bit of exposed skin. “This is heaven.”
“Told you,” Jameson says, sitting cross-legged beside me. A particularly bold puppy has climbed into his lap and is trying to eat his volunteer badge.
For the first time in three days, my mind goes quiet. There’s no room for guilt or worry when you’re being mobbed by puppies who think you’re the most interesting thing they’ve ever encountered. One of them—smaller than the others, with a white patch over one eye—curls up against my leg and promptly falls asleep.
The sight steals what’s left of my breath. His large hand scoops up a squirming puppy, cradling it against his chest with such gentleness that my heart doesn’t know whether to beatfaster or flatline. His thick fingers find the sweet spot behind its ears, and it sighs sweetly, melting into a puddle of contentment.
“You’re good at this,” I say, unable to look away from how comfortable he is with them.
“Years of practice,” he says, then his brown eyes cross adorably when the puppy stretches up and drags its tiny pink tongue across his nose. “Oh, that’s—okay, that’s disgusting but also cute.”
He catches me staring, and his smile shifts into something shy. “What?”
“Nothing. Just…you.”
Before I can elaborate, one of the puppies discovers his flip-flop has slipped off. The tiny creature investigates his exposed foot with scientific dedication before deciding his big toe is the most fascinating thing in the universe. The puppy’s tongue goes to work, licking with the determination of someone trying to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.
Jameson’s entire body jerks. “Oh no, no, no—” A laugh bursts out of him, high and breathless. “Stop, that tickles!”
But the puppy is committed to its mission. Jameson tries to pull his foot away, but that only makes the puppy more determined, following his toe with single-minded focus.
“Kevin, help!” He’s laughing so hard that tears form in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t—this is torture!”
“I don’t know,” I say, grinning at this unexpected discovery. “This is pretty entertaining.”
“You’re evil.” He finally manages to scoop up the offending puppy, holding it at arm’s length while he catches his breath. “Mental note: never let the puppies near my feet.”
“Mental note: Jameson Hart has ticklish feet,” I counter, filing this information away for future use.
The puppy in his hands yawns, apparently exhausted from its toe-licking adventure, and Jameson’s expression becomes impossibly mushy.
We’ve been herefor who knows how long, covered in puppies, covered in fur, probably covered in things I don’t want to think about. But for the first time since the boat, I can breathe properly as the weight on my chest loosens a bit.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly. “For this. For not pushing. For being you.”
