The Natural History of Us (10 page)

I nodded, because what else was I going to do? A house for dogs. Sure. Why not?

Following as she pulled on my hand, half-feeling like I'd entered some sort of bizarre, altered universe, I climbed the first weather-beaten step. The wide porch was just as worn, the light gray paint on the landing cracked and peeling in spots. But small touches, like potted plants and even a double swing, made me feel welcome. Comfortable.

And it was for
dogs
.

Peyton stopped short on the landing, hair blowing in the wind. “Please tell me you're not allergic.”

I couldn't help myself. I reached out and freed the strand stuck to her mouth, and while I tucked it behind her ear, her gaze collided with mine. “Allergic to meeting moms, yes.” I swallowed hard as I slid my finger across her silken skin. “Allergic to dogs, no.”

Cheeks pink, she ducked her head away, though I caught the edge of her smile. “Dork.”

I chuckled quietly and waved her ahead. Peyton threw open the screen door and a second later, I followed…

And entered the “Dog Zone.”

Statues of basset hounds stood guard on either end of the door. Paintings of Dalmatians in top hats and fedoras playing cards lined two of the walls, dog treats, food, and toys were on display in every corner and crevice, and, I kid you not, “Who Let the Dogs Out” was playing overhead.

The entire back wall consisted of two large whiteboards filled with different colored ink. A calendar of sorts showed who was checking in and who was checking out and listed a detailed schedule of grooming, training, and play times.

Behind a makeshift desk, not really more than a fold out table really, sat a girl with her gaze glued to a laptop. Tufts of bleached-white hair curled out from beneath a turquoise
cowboy hat, and her black studded T-shirt read, “Get in Line, Bub.”

“I'm almost done,” she said, not shifting her eyes from the screen. “The cutest Pomeranian came in for a grooming today and the owner let me video her. I'm making it look like she's shaking it to Taylor Swift.”

Peyton bit her lip and glanced at me with an unreadable expression. “Uh, Faith, can that maybe wait a second?”

Click, click
. The girl continued typing, but heaved a dramatic sigh. “Geez, where's the fire? Something happen at school? Another failed run-in with Baseball Stud?”

Peyton choked and sputtered beside me, but Faith continued despite her distress. “I already told you what you have to do. Find out whichever locker is his, stake it out, and when that Diamond Doll floozie leaves his side, offer to be his bat girl instead.”

She giggled as she said it, wiggling her eyebrows for innuendo, and Peyton's face blazed five shades of red. I couldn't wipe the smile from my face if someone paid me to.

As Peyton's mouth opened and closed like a fish, I leaned close to her ear, inhaling the intoxicating scent of sunflowers, and murmured, “I'd
love
it if you did that.”

My low voice must've carried because the clacking stopped and Faith suddenly lifted her head. When her dark eyes met mine, they widened like saucers. “Holy crap!”

Time to turn on the charm.

Best friends are vital when you're into a girl. Knowing that, I put on the crooked smile known to make girls loopy and said, “Hi, I'm Justin.” Then, unable to help myself, I shot Peyton a sly grin and added, “Or, as someone people like to call me, Baseball Stud.”

Peyton's eyes narrowed as she fought back a smile, and I gave her an innocent look in return. Faith watched our
interaction with ever-growing delight before sending Peyton a nod of endorsement. “I completely approve.”

“Oh, no. We're not… It's not…” Peyton lifted her hands in the air to explain, realizing as she did so that she was still clutching one of mine. She dropped it like a hot potato. “It's not what it looks like.”

Faith snickered. “Sure it's not.”

Amused, I watched as Peyton smashed her lips into a hard, thin line, which only caused her friend to smirk more. The two entered that silent communication thing girls do where they hold an entire conversation in nothing but eyebrow lifts and facial expressions. After a few moments, Faith winked, Peyton exhaled, and then, they both glanced at me.

“Anyway,” Peyton said, her smile at once embarrassed and exasperated. It was adorable as hell. “I thought I'd give Justin a quick tour of the place. Is Mama in the back?”

“She's in the salon with Buster.” Faith tipped the rim of her rhinestone cowboy hat up with a pointer finger, sizing me up one final time. “My girl was right about one thing, though. You are pure eye candy.” She shot me a playful wink as Peyton gaped beside me. Oh, this girl was fun. “You know, if you read the top ten fashion trends of the season, my views would go through the roof!”

I chuckled and shook my head. “My apologies, but the only video I do is game tape.”

Grinning, she took that in stride and said, “Let me know if you change your mind.” Then she blew Peyton a kiss and went back to her work.

When I turned to face Peyton again, I expected her to be red-faced. Embarrassed that her friend spilled so much, worried that I was going to use it against her. But she wasn't. If anything, she appeared more confident than I'd ever seen her, shoulders back and a serene expression on her face that seemed to say, “oh well, whatcha gonna do?”

“Come back and say hello with me?”

Saying yes meant meeting her mom. Willfully doing that was the stress-ball equivalent of suggesting Coach let me squat behind the plate without a mitt. But, as I'd already established, logic flew straight out the window when I was around this girl. Especially when she looked at me like I was the answer to every question ever asked.

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.”

That answer seemed to please her, which was strange considering she owned a ranch. “Oh, well that's good.” The clippers buzzed back to life as she turned back to Buster. “I better finish this up for Mrs. Murden. You two have fun.”

That was… odd. Peyton wouldn't meet my eyes while she walked past, snagging my hand as she did. I followed her out the room, down the hall, and past a curious Faith who waved at us with her pointer finger, right through the door and onto the front porch. The moment the screen door closed behind us, she let go of my hand and leaned against the wall.

Her breath was labored, her eyes shut tight, and she looked so vulnerable it took everything in me not to tug her to my chest and wrap her in my arms. Peyton was confident and shy, open yet confusing, and so far out of my league it wasn't even funny. But hell if I was going anywhere just yet.

“So where's this badass horse I was promised I'd meet?”

Slowly, her eyelids opened and her eyes found mine. I wouldn't push her to talk if she wasn't ready. Hell, if she were ready, I wouldn't know what to say anyway. Touchy-feely crap wasn't my forte. Distraction, however, was another story.

I glanced around the wide horseless porch and gave a bored sigh. “Well, Sunshine? I ain't getting any younger here.”

Clamping her lips together, she stifled what appeared to be a grin before lowering her gaze to the floor. She inhaled deeply and let it out. When she raised her head again, her smile was almost blinding. “Well, come on, then.”

The barn, as it turned out, was pretty much what you'd expect. Light gray wood, bales of hay, and tools. Four horses stood in their stalls, watching me quietly as I walked by until we came to a stop in front of number five.

“This is Oakley,” Peyton said, her voice soft and sort of reverent. The horse was a warm chestnut color, all but for a
long white stripe down her nose. She gently ran her hand along the slope.

“She's a sorrel quarter horse,” she continued, and I nodded as though I had a clue what that meant. Pressing her face against the horse, she breathed in and wrapped her arms around Oakley's neck. Then she turned her head and gave me a small smile. “You should see her cut on a turn. She's amazing.”

“When do I get to see you ride?” I asked, my voice low. It felt like if I spoke too loud, too quick, it would ruin… something. The moment. The look in her eyes.

But then a voice broke in, ruining everything anyway.

“Hopefully within the next year.” A dude stepped out of the shadows, running his hand along Oakley's nose right behind Peyton. Practically caging her in with his body. “CC's amazing out there.”

He smiled down at her and my eyes narrowed. I knew this game. Hell, I wrote the damn playbook. What I didn't know was who this guy was or why he was playing it with me. “CC?”

“Just a silly nickname,” Peyton mumbled. She ducked out from under the guy's hold and leaned against a beam near the stall. The guy turned to me, dropping his smile.

“Can chaser,” he explained. “It means she's a barrel racer.” He took in my unlaced tennis shoes, a far cry from his roughed up cowboy boots, and his eyebrows lifted behind his wire-rimmed frames. “Are you here for lessons?”