Page 18 of Spiced!

“He’s coming back in three weeks,” I said.

Puck dook’d once.

I fed him, watered Gerald, and ate leftovers for dinner standing up at the island, because Alan wasn’t there to have anything snarky to say about it.

Puck stood at the edge of the counter, watching and judging as all ferrets did.

“What? Fine. Yes, he was hot.”

Dook.

“No, I didn’t get his number. I’m a professional. I mean, technically, I have his number. It’s in the system. But it would be unethical for me to use a number given by a patient for personal reasons.”

Dook. Dook.

I set my fork down and squinted at my stubborn pet.

“I’ll see him for the next checkup in three weeks. There’s no need to go crazy.”

Puck shuffled forward, then sat on his haunches a few inches from my plate. He glanced at my plate, then up at me and dook’d three times in rapid succession.

I blew out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll go back to the bar.”

I swear Puck raised an eyebrow and grinned.

Chapter 4

Adrian

There’s so much nobody tells you about getting a puppy, like how you will stand in a vet’s parking lot for six minutes after your appointment, holding eight pounds of squirming beagle against your chest, replaying the moment when a very attractive man put his hand on your arm and then removed it like he’d touched a hot pan. Your pup will sneeze on you three times throughout said hand-touching-and-removal, and you won’t notice a single sneeze.

Mofongo sneezed a fourth time.

I looked down.

He looked up at me with his enormous ears and his painted-on white nose stripe with the absolute certainty of a creature who had known me for four hours and had already decided to adopt me as his daddy.

“So,” I said. “That’s the vet. He’s your doctor now.”

He blinked.

“His name is Brendan. He has good hands. He touched my arm and then stopped, which I’ve been thinking about ever since. That’s kind of embarrassing, isn’t it? I need you to keep that between us, okay?”

Mofongo sneezed again. This time, puppy spittle coated my shirt. He promptly licked it off.

“Okay, ew,” I said. “But I guess that’s fair. Or was that your way of agreeing to keep my secret? You’re going to have to be patient with me. I don’t speak Beagle yet.”

Mofongo licked my shirt again. I took that as affirmation and not him cleaning the flour off the fabric, which, in hindsight, was a very human way to see his non-affection-related slobber.

Getting my baby beast into the car took four minutes because he had opinions about the passenger seat, the seat belt, and—I say this with burgeoning dog dad love—the pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror, which he attacked with the determination of a guardian who had identified a clear and present danger and intended to neutralize it personally.

“Papi, that’s decorative.”

He growled. The sound was small and ridiculous, entirely committed, and the most adorable thing I might’ve ever heard.

“You’ve been alive for eight weeks. Are you seriously trying to protect me from pine?”

He growled again.