With Peyton, there were no games. No hiding her emotions. She wore them openly like a sign for everyone to see, for me to see, and for some reason, it made me want to be near her that much more. Unfortunately for me, it also made disappointing her impossible. Forcing a smile, I nodded and motioned for her to lead on.
“We mainly board dogs,” she told me, this time taking my elbow as we walked down the hall. She rapped her knuckles on the whiteboard listing the salon schedule. “Grooming and training sessions are included with every stay, but some dogs come in just for those things. Except for days when we’re really slammed, Mom handles the salon while we exercise the dogs.”
About halfway down the corridor, she stopped in front of a window overlooking a pond and fenced-in field. A cool breeze blew in through the opened glass, lifting the loose strands of her hair and bringing with it the sound of incessant yapping.
“That’s Trevor,” she said, nodding toward a figure in the center of the chaos. I narrowed my eyes, curious about my competition.
The guy appeared to be around my age, maybe a little older, leaning back in a Houston Texans folding chair. His head bopped to the old-school rap floating in the air, his lips moving in complete unison to the words. Some sort of cartoon character was ironed onto his oversized black hoodie, his hair was a muddy brown mop on his head, and his tennis shoes were two different colors—neon yellow and magenta.
Peyton pressed her chest against the windowpane. “How’s Mitzy today?”
Without turning around, Trevor stopped singing and scooped a black poodle onto his lap. “The little beauty’s got it now!” he called back.
“Sweet!”
After executing the cutest victory dance imaginable, Peyton went on to discuss various training methods, treats, and even dog poop with the dude. I’m talking frequency, color, and even consistency. The least sexy topics known to man—and the guy didn’t check her out once. By the time she waved goodbye and continued our trek down the hall, it was safe to say any insecurities I’d had were obliterated.
Honestly, though, now that I knew where I stood, I was actually impressed with the guy. His style was wacked, but he clearly knew his shit when it came to dogs, and his rank in Golfweek Magazine spoke for itself. That was the other sport, apart from baseball, Dad loved. Half his business deals were held on the fairway and he took an annual trip to Scotland and Ireland to play with his colleagues. I, on the other hand, had never held a club. He’d never bothered to teach me.
At the end of the hall, Peyton stopped in front of a closed door marked Salon where a low buzzing emanated. A woman’s voice lifted over the hum.
“Baby, let me be. Your loving… teddy bear.”
Eyebrow quirked, I exchanged a glance with Peyton.
“Put a chain around my neck… Uh huh.”
The improvised musical stylings trailed off into a series of melodic grunts and finger snaps, accompanied by excited doggy yaps. It appeared Elvis was in the building. And that he enjoyed a good grooming. Peyton closed her eyes and hung her head.
I grinned and bumped her shoulder. “Wouldn’t “Hound Dog” be a better choice?” I mused aloud. She shot me a look through a veil of strawberry blonde hair. “No, seriously—”
“Who’s a good boy?” the woman’s voice asked in baby-talk from the other side. “Yeah, who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are. You’re a good boy.”
Peyton groaned and knocked her head against the door once, twice, three times. The disembodied voice invited us inside.
“Mama, we’ve got company,” Peyton said as she pushed open the door. A half-shaved chocolate lab stood on a table with a leash around its neck and a woman in front of it, facing away from us. “Is there any way we can try to tone down the crazy, at least until he leaves?”
“Never hide what you are, dear,” she replied with a disapproving tsk.
It was such a mom thing to say, or at least what I’d imagined a mom would say, that I laughed as I leaned against the doorjamb. Peyton eyed me with a traitorous expression. “Sorry, Sunshine, but I’ve got to go with your mom on this one. Besides, I like crazy.”
The buzz from the clippers stopped and the woman turned around. She was an older version of Peyton. “Oh, I like that. Hello there, I’m Grace, Peyton’s weirdo, crazy, embarrassing mother. And you are…?”
“Mama, this is Justin,” Peyton answered for me. “He’s the one who brought me home today and he’s hanging out while his ride runs an errand. I thought I’d show him around and introduce him to Oakley.”
The light, easy smile suddenly slipped from her mother’s face, replaced by a strange, borderline fearful expression. She glanced away and swallowed. “Do you ride, Justin?”
Confused, I pushed away from the doorframe. “Uh, no ma’am,” I told her. “The closest I’ve ever come to a horse is on a hayride when I was eight. Don’t really have an interest in getting much closer, either.”