Page 4 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I was testing you. Congrats—you passed.”
“Do I get a sticker?” he asks, deadpan, but the curve of his mouth betrays him.
“I’m fresh out, but I can offer a dog-shaped sugar cookie.”
“That tracks.”
We haul my bags inside while Charlotte narrates the weekend plan: help in the mornings, shoot photos in the afternoon, hot cocoa always. The cabin is all warm wood, high windows, and the faint soundtrack of paws on floorboards. A corkboard near the kitchen holds Polaroids of every dog that’s found a home—smiling humans, goofy tongues, Sharpie names likePeanut, Tofu, Cricket.
“I’m already crying,” I announce, setting my camera case on the big farmhouse table. “I haven’t even unzipped the lens hood and I’m emotional.”
“You’re in luck,” Charlotte says. “We just took in four new pups.”
“Four?” I clasp a hand to my chest. “Say less.”
The screen door clicks again, and in trots a lanky adolescent mutt with ears like satellite dishes. Lucas whistles softly, and the pup gallops to him, skidding to a sit at his boots.
“This is Major,” Lucas says, ruffling the dog’s neck. “Found him near Red Rocks. Friendly, smart, part gazelle.”
Major blinks at me like we’re already best friends. I crouch and offer a hand to sniff. “Majooor,” I coo. “Ready for your close-up, sir?”
“He’s a ham,” Lucas says. “You’ll get gold in five minutes.”
“Good, because I brought my ‘adopt me’ bandanas,” I say, fishing a bundle from my tote. “And a tiny tweed bowtie.”
Lucas raises a brow. “Tweed. For the mountains.”
“Exactly.” I loop the bowtie around Major’s neck. He looks like a very polite accountant. “Oh my gosh, I can’t—someone adopt himnow.”
We do the house tour: guest room (plaid duvet, view for days), mudroom stocked with towels, a gear closet that looks like an REI made friends with a SWAT van. Charlotte and I stop in the nursery.
“Yellow,” I say with a smile. “I love it.”
“I wanted something neutral because we want to be surprised,” Charlotte says with a hand on her belly.
I hug her again because I just can’t believe my best friend is pregnant. “I can’t wait to meet your baby!”
Charlotte nods, hugging me back. “You’re going to be a great Auntie.”
“Why yes I am.” I smile, and Charlotte and I head toward the guest room where Lucas is already hoisting my suitcase onto the bench like it’s weightless and somehow not the size of a baby rhino.
“You pack light,” he says, eyeing the second tote.
“I’m here forty-eight hours with a camera. I require options.”
He nods gravely. “Contingency planning. Respect.”
“See?” I point at Charlotte. “Someone appreciates my preparedness.”
“She brought three kinds of lip balm,” Charlotte informs him.
“Hydration is important,” I say, deeply offended.
Lucas’s mouth tilts. “Copy that.”
We break for lunch—grilled cheese, tomato soup, two dogs under the table praying for crumbs—and the conversation loosens. Lucas is just back from a run with Riggs, protecting Vanessa Mercado for a week of brand shoots.
I choke on a crouton. “TheVanessa Mercado?”
