Page 7

The Worthington Hills Saturday market is in full, shameless bloom. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s a full-on sensory assault. Sunlight everywhere, bouncing off every glossy tomato and wild flower bouquet. The air smells like kettle corn, cinnamon, and sunscreen. People are everywhere, crowding the main walkways, weaving between booths like bees hopped up on lavender lattes. I’m basically swimming in a sea of strollers, reusable bags, dogs in little bandanas, toddlers with sticky hands, and the occasional retiree absolutely crushing their power-walk.

Vendors are shouting, hawking jams and artisan bread and organic pet treats nobody’s dog actually needs but they buy anyway. There’s a guy with a saxophone playing “Careless Whisper” for spare change, and I have to sidestep a basset hound wearing a cowboy hat just to get to the next row. I love it. It’s chaos, but the good kind. The alive kind.

My basket’s already loaded down with heirloom tomatoes and a new aloe vera plant I’m going to add to my collection, but I’m still wandering the stalls, hunting for my next treasure.

Mostly, I'm trying not to think about Hunter Hartwell. You know, the six-foot-something wall of muscle and brooding sex appeal who’s been living in my brain rent-free for weeks, despite totally ghosting me. It’s pathetic. But I’m determined to get over this embarrassing obsession. That’s why I’m here, deep in the chaos of the market, determined to fill my head with anything except him.

Who cares if his hands are the size of dinner plates, and his eyes could make a nun spill her darkest confessions? I'm here to occupy my mind with something other than my smoking hot neighbor and to forget about the way my body lights up every time I think about his stupidly broad shoulders.

Today is about self-care. Not sex dreams about my neighbor. I mean it.

Truth is, I haven’t seen Grumpy since Wednesday. Not that I’m counting. Not that I checked the hallway every time I left my apartment or woke up at midnight and paced the living room, hoping to hear that familiar, deliberate tread outside my door.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. My pathetic little crush, which I’d assumed would die a natural, dignified death, has metastasized instead. I keep replaying that first interaction in my head—his voice all low and gravelly, his eyes pinning me like I’m a puzzle worth solving. I can’t even walk past his front door without thinking of his stupidly broad shoulders and the way he managed to look both bored and ready to eat me for dinner at the same time.

I reset my stance, squaring my shoulders. I’m a self-sufficient, capable woman, I remind myself. I don’t need a damn man. Hell, I’ve never needed one. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. The thought charges through me, hot and sure, and I let it settle, fierce and stubborn, right behind my breastbone. Maybe I want him—but I don’t need him. Not for a single fucking thing.

I’m about to make my final lap around the market and stop to grab a cold brew from the coffee cart, planning to call it a morning, when I see the crowd outside the Paws & Claws Pet Land.

An adoption event. Shit. My kryptonite. I’ve always wanted a puppy.

I hover at the edge, my whole body instantly thrumming with the conflicting impulses of “run away now” and “touch all the puppies.” The volunteer closest to me is wearing a T-shirt that says “FREE KISSES.”

A woman with a voice like an airhorn calls out, “All adoption fees half off until noon! Don’t wait to meet your forever friend!” She looks right at me as she says it. Like she knows. Like she can see an easy target a mile away.

“Are you looking for a new fur baby?” the volunteer asks, sidling up with a clipboard.

“Just browsing,” I say, my voice climbing two octaves. “I mean, I live in an apartment, so…”

She nods, as if this is the universal excuse of the weak-willed. “You’d be surprised how many of these guys are apartment-friendly.”

She gestures at the kennel directly in front of us. A puppy, flopped in the exact pose of every “save me” ASPCA ad that’s ever aired, is lying there with his nose squashed against the bars. His eyes are huge, brown, and so heartbreakingly soulful that I swear they reach into my ribcage and squeeze. He’s got impossibly floppy ears, silky and drooping, like a cartoon puppy engineered for maximum cuteness. His nose is smushed to the crate like he’s trying to sniff his way out, and every time he breathes, this tiny whimper bubbles up and undoes me a little more.

His fur is tricolor, with patches of black draped over a warm tan and a snowy white chest. His humongous paws look like he's wearing formal socks. His floppy ears are nearly as long as his face, velvet-soft, and bouncing with each head tilt. His classic beagle eyes look up at me, round and liquid brown and rimmed with black, with a plea so earnest I can almost hear the baying howl he'll perfect in a few months. When he shifts his weight, his white-tipped tail wags with such force that his entire back half sways. I actually clutch my chest.

“He’s six months,” the girl says. “Found behind the bakery in a cardboard box. He loves cuddles and string cheese, but he’s scared of loud noises.”

I squat down and put my hand against the kennel. The puppy sniffs my fingers, then licks them through the bars with a tongue that feels improbably huge. His tail wags, then thunks once against the newspaper lining.

“What’s his name?” I ask, voice thick.

Her eyes light up as she realizes she’s got a live one on the hook. “We’ve been calling him Buster, but honestly, he’ll answer to anything if there’s food involved.”

I shouldn’t do this. I really, really shouldn’t. I have work, and a weird schedule, and I’ll have to pay a pet deposit to my landlord. Plus, what do I even know about dogs? I’ve never had a pet before.

But Buster looks at me like he’s known me for years. Like I’m his person.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to summon the ancient wisdom of impulse control. But I fail. Miserably.

I straighten up, dust imaginary dirt off my shorts, and say, “Can I get to know him?”

The girl beams. “I’ll get the leash.” She unlocks the kennel, and Buster immediately slumps onto my feet, all dead weight and neediness, like he’s been practicing this move for months. His head tilts back, brown eyes melting my resolve into a useless puddle.

I kneel next to him and rub his ears. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?” I whisper.

He sneezes once, then flops his head onto my knees. I glance around, hoping nobody I know is witnessing my immediate collapse. I glance down at my new friend. “You want to go home with me?”

He cocks his head. His tongue lolls out, and he steals my heart. Darn it. It looks like I’m about to become a beagle mommy.