Page 4 of Crowbar

Without a word, he shifted the puppy to one arm and pulled the crate box down with the other. It landed in the cart with a clang that made two customers in the next aisle peer around the endcap. He didn’t acknowledge them. Just settled the puppy back under his arm and looked at me expectantly.

I glanced around, trying to think of what else she might need.

“Collar and leash.” My voice came out slightly breathless, which I blamed on the physical labor and not on the way his forearm flexed when he repositioned the dog. “They’re adjustable, so it’ll grow with her. You’ll need to size up in a few months. German shepherds grow fast. Like, concerningly fast. You’ll blink and she’ll be the size of a small horse.”

“Good.”

“Good? Most people are alarmed by that information.”

“I’m not most people, princess.” He shifted the puppy higher on his arm, and she burrowed deeper into the crook of his elbow without waking. Something about the protective way he held her without being possessive made me smile.

“Um, what color?” I cleared my throat.

“Don’t care.”

“Everyone cares about color. It’s a personality statement.” I held up two options. “Red says confident and bold. Black says mysterious and probably listens to metal.”

Those storm-cloud eyes moved from the collars to my face. “Which one would you pick?” Crowbar asked, like he genuinely wanted my opinion.

“For the dog?”

“For the dog.”

“Black?” I set the red one back on the hook. “Matches her coat better. And it’s a good color if she decides to play in a band.”

He smirked, looking at me for a beat too long before nodding. “Black it is.”

Into the cart it went, along with a matching leash, a pack of puppy pads, and three chew toys I’d grabbed based on nothing but gut instinct and the fact that I found them amusing. A rubber mailman. A squeaky steak. A rope bone that was already unraveling at one end.

“Oh, and treats!” I doubled back, pulling a bag of training treats off an endcap display. “Positive reinforcement. You reward the behavior you want, ignore the behavior you don’t. Works on dogs, people, and pretty much everything except the IRS.”

We moved down the aisle, the squeaky wheel announcing our location to the entire store. General Patton squawked unintelligibly as we passed, and Crowbar glanced at the bird with an expression I couldn’t decode.

“He’s rude,” I explained. “Don’t take it personally. He called me an asshole twice this morning and I hadn’t even done anything yet.”

“Yet.”

“Implying I would’ve eventually done something to deserve it?”

Those blue eyes cut sideways to me. “Implying it was early.”

A laugh escaped me. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. I’m not a morning person. The bird sensed weakness.”

The puppy had fallen asleep, her oversized paws twitching against his arm. A faint snore buzzed from her muzzle. Huh. I’d been right. Dogs do snore. Go me.

“Call her Snorer,” I said, pointing at the sleeping puppy. “Or Chainsaw.”

“Her name’s Gunner,” he said.

“Gunner.” I looked at the sleeping ball of fluff currently drooling on his leather cut. “You’re naming a ten-week-old puppy who weighs maybe eight pounds Gunner.”

“She’ll grow into it.”

“She’s snoring on your bicep like a tiny drunk person. She’s not growing into Gunner. She’s growing into Biscuit, maybe. Or Noodles.”

The toothpick shifted. “Gunner.”

“Your funeral when she doesn’t come when you call because even she knows that name doesn’t match the vibe.”