Page 33 of Puppy Love

Meg laughed again. “She doesn’t sound so bad, if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one asked you, then.”

Meg could have easily taken offense at his dad’s harsh words, but she was far too used to him to bother. Instead, she shrugged and took herself off to tend to customers at the window leading to the bowling alley side of the bar.

“I meant what I said about the tablecloths, Harrison,” his dad warned. “It always starts with tablecloths.”

Harrison pictured their kitchen table, the rough-hewn planks and serviceable build, and nodded his understanding. That table had been there for a decade, built by his dad’s own two hands. It might have been ugly, but it was functional. To cover it with something soft and floral would only make a mockery of it.

You can’t hide a table’s true nature.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall behind the bar, his expression grim and so much like his father’s it was uncanny. He might be younger and not quite so hard, but there was no denying they were cast from the same rough mold.

It was only a matter of time before he was just as old and miserable as his dad.

Guess you can’t hide a man’s true nature either.

Chapter 8

“You’re sure you don’t mind keeping an eye on Bubbles while we go for a run?” Sophie turned her sunniest smile on Harrison’s dad. “Considering what good shape Harrison is in, we’ll probably have to do five miles before we start to see his blood sugar dip enough to register. We may have to go even farther.”

Harrison fully expected his father to refuse—a thing as natural to him as breathing—but the man took one look at Sophie’s bright expression and blinked.

“She might not like it, since we’re training her to avoid separation from Harrison at all costs, but you should be able to distract her with this.”

Thethisin question was a squeaky toy in the shape of miniature rubber chicken. Sophie squeezed it once, the long whine of it causing Bubbles to leap out of Harrison’s arms and station herself at Sophie’s feet.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Harrison’s dad asked doubtfully.

“Throw it. Squeak it. Hide it.” She beamed up at him. “It doesn’t really matter. Just play with her.”

His dad blinked again. “What if I just put her in a box and close the flap?”

“I imagine she’d have something to say about that.” Sophie laughed and handed over the toy. “Thank you, Wallace.”

Wallace?Since when were Sophie and his father on a first-name basis? Come to think of it, when had his father done anything remotely resembling play? Unless you counted their annual Alone for Thanksgiving Poker Tournament, where they sat and played cards for eight hours, smoking cigars and eating cold lunch meat, he couldn’t remember the last time his father had willingly participated in a game.

“By the way,” Sophie added, “did you have a chance to burn the candle in your room? It’s nice, right? My sister Dawn makes them, so there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Harrison braced himself for the inevitable outburst.

“It was all right,” his dad said with a soft grunt. “Little flowery for my taste.”

She nodded as if that made perfect sense. “I was afraid it might be. How’d the puppy do with it?”

“Little flowery for her too,” his dad said.

Harrison could only stare at his father.He’dbeen satisfied with how little attention Bubbles had paid to the lit candles as long as they were on tabletops and well out of reach, but to his knowledge, his father refused to have anything to do with the candle schedule. In fact, he’d taken one look at it posted on the refrigerator and muttered his intention to invite the raccoon inside to put an end to this whole sorry mess.

“Maybe you should bring me a bacon one,” his dad added.

Sophie laughed. “Dawn doesn’t make those, unfortunately. But I’ll bring you a cedar-and-bergamot scented one tomorrow—it’s just as calming, but the fragrance is a lot more understated. Well, Harrison, are we ready?”

Wait—that was it? He paused, waiting for those promises of telling Sophie off, of taking a stand against encroaching tablecloths, but his dad wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

The coward.All that talk at the bar had been nothing but braggadocio. His father could no more stand up to Sophie Vasquez than Harrison could.

Not that he could blame his father. She’d shown up this morning with her shoulders fully covered by a long-sleeved athletic shirt—a thing he’d noted with profound relief. Unfortunately, she’d paired it with a pair of running pants with inexplicable bands of sheer material wrapped around her thighs. How was that even a thing? Her legs were technically covered against the biting spring wind, but those fabric windows offered glimpses of skin and muscle that no one should have to face this early in the morning.