Page 2 of Crowbar

“A puppy. Right. I know what those are.” I set the cat litter down before my spaghetti arms gave out and it crushed my foot. “Great. Love puppies. Huge fan. We have several.”

I had no idea how many we had. Deb had given me a tour that morning, but most of it had been a blur of feeding schedules, cage-cleaning protocols, and a stern warning about General Patton’s biting habit. The puppy section was somewhere past the fish tanks and to the left. I think.

I’d heard them yapping on and off all morning, but this place had an echo and the tour had been quick.

I guess I’m about to find out.

“Follow me.” Confidence was ninety percent performance and ten percent not tripping over your own feet. I led him down the main aisle, past the wall of leashes and collars, past the cat tower display that looked like a modernist sculpture, and past a tank of hermit crabs that gave me the creeps.

A cockatiel—or was that a cockatoo?—screamed from its perch as we walked by. Neither of us flinched, which felt like a bonding moment. Those were the rules.

“Big breed,” the man said behind me. “Something with size.”

“Right. Big dog. Big breed. Absolutely.” I had no idea what distinguished a big breed from a regular breed. Dogs came in sizes, like T-shirts. That was the extent of my canine knowledge. “Any particular type, or are you open to whatever calls to you?”

“German shepherd, if you’ve got one.”

Thank god he’d narrowed it down. “Let me check what we have in the back.”

I’d actually found it but “back” was a generous term for the section behind the frosted glass partition where Deb kept the puppies in individual pens. I rounded the partition and was immediately hit with the smell of puppy breath, newspaper, and the sweet funk of animals who had been fed recently. Eight pens lined the wall, each one containing a ball of fur in various states of consciousness. Some were sleeping. One was chewing on what used to be a stuffed duck. Another was spinning in circles for no discernible reason.

I scanned the cards on each pen, searching for anything that said German shepherd. Golden retriever. Beagle. Something labeled “Labradoodle,” which sounded made up. Pomeranian. Another beagle. Pit bull mix.

Bottom row, second from the end. German Shepherd. Female. 10 weeks.

“Got one,” I called out then realized Crowbar was standing right behind me, close enough that I caught the scent of motor oil and sandalwood.

Spinning around, I nearly collided with him. My face was level with the center of his chest.

“She’s right here.” I sidestepped, gesturing at the pen like a game show host revealing a prize. “Ten weeks old. Female.”

Inside the pen, a German shepherd puppy with ears too big for her head looked up at both of us. Her fur was a black-and-tan pattern, her paws comically oversized, and she had a streak of something suspicious on her nose. She tilted her head, studying the large man curiously.

I studied him too. It was hard to ignore all those muscles.

The stranger crouched down. The leather cut shifted across his shoulders, and the toothpick rolled to the center of his mouth. That’s when I noticed the name on the back of his leather.

Crowbar.

Did I want to know why he was called that? My attention swung back to him as one massive hand reached slowly through the pen’s opening, fingers extended.

The puppy sniffed his knuckles. Then she licked them. Then she wiggled her entire back half with enthusiasm, the kind that only baby animals and drunk people could pull off.

Crowbar’s eyes softened, and the line of his mouth eased into a smile.

My stomach did a small, unexpected flip.

“She’s great,” I offered. “Very energetic. Loves people, obviously. Eats well, I’m sure. Probably needs a lot of exercise, you know, because you were looking for a large breed, and those kind need to run around.” The longer Crowbar stared at me, the more I talked, pulling random facts out of thin air. “They’re working dogs. Very smart. Used in movies, I think. Rin Tin Tin? Was that a German shepherd? I feel like it was.”

Crowbar looked up at me from his crouch, one eyebrow raised, and the toothpick tilted at an angle that communicated amusement without his mouth moving at all.

“You always talk this much?”

“When I’m nervous, yes. Also when I’m not nervous. And when I’m sleeping. My old roommate complained about it constantly.” Stop talking. “She snores, by the way. The puppy. Probably. Most dogs snore. I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m more of a...” I searched for the right word. Cat person sounded wrong given the store’s name and the fact that cats terrified me. “Indoor person.”