Page 81 of The Weight Of Falling
“I know. I just don’t know how to change it.”
“You have to be steadier. He has to learn discipline.”
“Discipline?” Turbo stares up at me with those soulful brown eyes and my resolve wobbles. “How am I supposed to discipline that face?”
“Gentle discipline is love.” Joel gives the leash a firm tug. “Sit.”
Turbo immediately plops his butt on the grass like he’s a trained show dog. This, from the same creature who, only an hour ago, chewed a hole through my sock while maintaining direct eye contact.
My mouth falls open. “Are you some kind of dog whisperer?”
Joel chuckles, low and warm. It makes something flutter in my chest. “He’s a beagle. Half stomach, half stubbornness. You can’t out-stubborn a beagle, but you can outsmart one.” He slips a treat from his pocket and gives it to Turbo. “Good boy.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s bribery.”
“In dog world, it’s positive reinforcement.”
I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, but my gaze keeps returning to his mouth like it’s a magnetic field. I know all too well what he can do with that mouth.
I snap out of it when Joel straightens. He holds the leash low at his hip and begins walking with deliberate, unhurried steps. Turbo trots beside him like they’ve been doing this for years.
I stare, completely betrayed. “I can’t believe he only listens to you.”
Joel glances over his shoulder. “He knows who’s in charge. Right now, that’s me.”
It’s hard to argue with that assertion. In a faded T-shirt and worn jeans, a baseball cap shading his eyes, he wears authority like it’s built in. Hmm, I like a man in charge. Idly, I wonder about all the different ways Joel would take charge in other areas.
“Kenzie.” I jump a little. I didn’t realize he was so close. He reaches over and gently tugs my ponytail. “Are you with me here?” he murmurs. “Because it looks like you’re...distracted.”
I feel a telltale heat in my cheeks. “I’m with you. Absolutely.”
“Are you sure?”
My blush deepens. “Yup. Totally.”
Something in his face softens. “Okay, then.”
After a few laps around my backyard, he hands the leash back to me. “Your turn. Keep the lead short. Don’t let him get ahead.”
I take the leash and mimic his movements. Turbo follows for ten seconds, then picks up a scent and zigzags across the grass trying to follow it. I call his name, but he doesn’t listen.
“Okay,” Joel says, stepping in. “Let’s fix your grip.”
He gently repositions my hand, his fingers brushing mine, a barely-there touch that sparks through me like static under my skin. He’s close enough that I feel his breath on my temple and the heat radiating off his body.
“Steady,” he murmurs in my ear. “He won’t respond to nervous energy.”
“I have plenty of nervous energy.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says softly.
I look up. His eyes meet mine for a moment too long. And in that stretch of silence, it feels like we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us wants to name.
He clears his throat and eases back half a step, breaking the tension building between us.
“Don’t use the leash to steer him,” he says, back to being practical again. “Use your body. Change direction. You’re not trying to overpower him. You’re trying to become more interesting than whatever he’s chasing.”
“So I need to be the most exciting thing in his world?”
