“Whatever,” I tell O’Connor, because he really doesn’t want to hear the real reasons for my divorce. “This old man is going back to his hotel room and crashing. Have fun freezing your balls off on the roof.”
The youngster winks. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find a sweet Chicago bunny to keep my balls warm.”
“Enjoy,” I grumble. It’s hard to believe I was like that once—brash, overconfident, and sex-obsessed. These days, the only thing I’m obsessed with is figuring out how to spend more time with my kids.
I trudge out of the locker room with Blake and Wes, who are both engrossed with their phones. Outside, the bus waits to take us back to the hotel. I climb in next to Riley and close my eyes for the short drive. Yeah, I feel old, all right. Just turned thirty and I feel like I’ve already got one foot in the grave. Ah, fuck, okay. I’m being melodramatic. But I’m just…tired.
The green light letting me into my hotel room is the cheeriest thing I’ve seen all day. I tug off my suit the minute my door closes. I need sleep.
But first I need to check on Rufus.
The security app on my iPad opens to show me a view of my apartment. The place still feels a little sterile to me, even though Hottie at Fetch has made it her personal cause to feather my nest.
She’s done a great job, too. The furniture and dishes are attractive but unassuming. All I sent her was a floor plan and a cry for help, and she went to town. I didn’t even know what I needed to buy, but she just handled it, including the stuff I probably would have overlooked. Like hand towels and a soap dish for each bathroom.
She even found this picture-frame thing for the kids’ art that hangs on the wall. All I have to do is slip each new crayon drawing behind the glass, framing it like magic. Since I don’t see my girls as often as I’d like, it’s nice to have their artwork nearby to make me think of them.
Yeah. If my place looks lonely, it’s not the apartment’s fault.
Then, two weeks ago, I’d had to fire up the Fetch app and ask Hottie to find me a dog bed and dishes. My ex-wife decided without warning that Rufus was too much for her to handle. I got a text message asking me to choose between taking him in or sending him to an animal shelter.
The shelter. Who does that? But I really shouldn’t be surprised. Since Kara kicked me to the curb, why should my dog fare any better?
My security cam comes into focus and I spot my furry pal immediately. He’s napping happily on the sofa, his chin on his paws.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, even though he can’t hear me. Then I drag my finger across the timeline at the bottom of the app, rewinding the day, while I squint at the thumbnail images that pop up. Rufus with a chew toy on the rug. Rufus napping. Rufus eating dinner and…
There. Another person in my apartment. I go back even further so I can see how this encounter began, then play it forward at regular speed. The door opens and a young woman steps inside. I catch only a quick glimpse of her slender frame before she drops to her knees in front of Rufus, who has slid cautiously off the sofa. He gives her a cursory sniff, and she bends kindly toward him, offering her hands and words I wish I could hear.
Rufus’s tail begins to wag like crazy, and I don’t blame the guy. This chick is cute, in a punk-rock kind of way. She’s got long black hair with messy bangs, huge eyes, and tons of silver on her ears—how many ear piercings does she have? I squint, but the image isn’t sharp enough to tell me. She asks Rufus a question, and it must contain the word “walk” because he spasms with happiness before running off to find his leash, skidding on the wood floors with excitement.
A moment later they’re out the door together. No stalking, thank goodness.
I glance at the clock so I can figure out if the new walker took my boy out for a proper ramble. There’s nothing to see on the screen except my empty apartment, so I open up the Fetch website, because I have a theory.
There on the login screen is a photo I see each time I visit the site. It’s an appealing woman in an office somewhere. She has her black hair swept up in a messy bun, exposing the soft skin of her neck, and a pencil in her teeth. Every time I use Fetch, which is pretty much every day, I admire her. It could easily be a stock photo. But it might be Hottie, the woman who handles most of my requests.
Okay, her name’s not really Hottie. But I don’t know what HTE stands for. In my head, I think of her as Hottie. And—this is pathetic—she’s the only woman I speak to on a daily basis. We’ve never even met.
Except I’m pretty sure she was in my apartment today. The woman I saw on my security cam looks a lot like the one I’ve been ogling on the login screen.
A lot like her.
The security app shows no activity for a long time. I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I check the scores of the other hockey games played tonight to see how the competition is shaping up.
Finally there’s movement on camera again. The door opens and Hottie steps inside with Rufus. His wagging tail smacks her in the thigh. She’s wearing slim jeans that make her legs look a mile long.
Then she bends over and gives Rufus a kiss on the nose.
Lucky beast.
Despite the fact that I’m exhausted, I find myself clicking on the chat icon in the Fetch app instead of shutting it off. Chances are, Hottie’s asleep, but I still type in a quick note.
Sniper87: Looks like Rufus had fun with his new dog-walker. Success?
To my surprise, little dots appear on the screen, indicating that someone’s typing a response. A second later, her message pops up.
HTE: You tell me. Only the client can determine if something was a success.
Sniper87: Seems so. You’re good to walk him tomorrow morning, too, right?
There’s a short delay.
HTE: I’ll send the same employee, if you’re happy with her.
I study the screen for a moment. I don’t know why, but I’m convinced that Hottie walked Rufus today. I want her to admit it, but, again, not sure why I care so much. We’ve been chatting for almost a year, but it’s not like we’re online dating or some shit.
This is a business relationship. Except…it’s not. This woman decorated my apartment. She knows the brand of boxers I wear. It feels pretty fucking personal by now. She knows I’m divorced. That I wish I saw my girls more. In fact, it was her idea to buy the twins the same exact beds they have in their bedroom at my former house. It will feel more like home when they’re with you, Hottie had suggested.
Sniper87: I’m very happy with this employee.
That was an understatement, so I add a little more.
Sniper87: I’m grateful to her. Plus, she’s cute.
I press Send on a whim, and I’m not surprised when there’s another delay.
HTE: Are you hitting on my employee right now??