How to Ruin a Wedding(58)

And here I am, sitting on a beach with sand between my toes, competing against someone who’s actually qualified. A nepo baby with real credentials and multiple degrees directly related to animals.

It sucks. Not because he’s a bad option—because he’s a good one, a great one, actually.

Because even I have to admit—if it can’t be me, he makes sense.

But I love Save a Paw. I know the dogs by name. I know the quirks of our plumbing system and how long it takes the heating to kick in in the back kennels. I forced myself under Joshua’s wing, learned how to run payroll, fix the books, talk to donors, manage inventory—all of it. Not because it came naturally, but because I refused to let the dogs go without what they needed.

Mason may have the resume. But I have the heart.

And yeah, I know that sounds like the kind of thing you say when you don’t have enough credentials to back yourself up. But it’s true. I would die for animals.

If this doesn’t work—if I can’t save Valerie from this wedding disaster—I’ll lose my shot at Save a Paw. I’ll lose the only place that’s ever felt like mine.

Like he heard me thinking of him, Anders’s name appears on my screen.

I answer on the first ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he says. “Where are you?”

I look at the time, and it’s already four. “Long story, but I’m at a dog shelter.”

“Dog shelter?” he repeats.

In the background, a loud, young, excited voice echoes, “Dog shelter?” There’s a rustling of movement, and then, Olive has the phone. “Are you with Sora?”

“Hang on,” I say, FaceTiming her.

She picks up immediately, and I turn the camera to Sora playing in the water. Olive squeals, then snaps, “You said you’d bring me!”

“I still can,” I offer.

“Can we go now?”

“That’s up to your uncle.”

There’s another rustling, and I take the camera off, bring the phone to my ear just as Anders is back on the line. “Will you send me your location?”

“Sure,” I say, then ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you for that.”

My cheeks heat at the warmth in his words, and I hang up before I say something like Thank you for existing.

It takes them about twenty minutes to arrive, and when they do, Olive—dressed in the cutest strawberry-print matching set—takes off running toward the sand and promptly face-plants.

Anders immediately scoops her up, inspects her for injury, and murmurs a string of comforting words I can’t quite make out. Whatever he says makes Olive’s slumped shoulders slowly straighten.

The sight tugs at me with a strange mix of nostalgia and loss—feelings that catch me off guard. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Watching them together reminds me of Taina and me—of the kind of closeness that fills you with burning warmth.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to comfort, or someone who looked to me like that—for safety, for softness. The absence hollows out my chest.

When they approach me, I plant a smile on my face and remind Olive that Sora is deaf, so she should try to let him see her first.

She agrees, then shoos me off to join him.

Anders approaches soon after, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves so almost every inch of his biceps is revealed. I give him a wave, he returns it with a smile, before standing beside me, overlooking Olive and Sora.

“Olive told me about Sora,” Anders says. “Did you steal him?”

I chuckle, then sigh. “Just letting him out so he doesn’t see another dog get a new family while he sleeps on his own again.”

Anders places a hand on my lower back for comfort, and I lean into him. He moves so that his hand covers the side of my waist, and I’m tucked at his side as we watch the two play.

“Are you a dog person?” I tilt my chin to look up at him. “Or a cat one? Or anti-animal?”

“Not sure,” he answers. “Aunt Bethany always had allergies, so we never had pets. Some of my friends had cats growing up, and I liked when they’d come around while I visited their house. Never really been around a dog.”

“They’re angels,” I explain though he didn’t ask. “They love you no matter what, even if you suck as a human being. It’s why so many dogs get hurt. They’re overly trusting, and it leads to them being attacked, and injured, and still they come back to us.”

His features pinch together as he frowns and squeezes my cheeks. “You look so upset.”

“A polite way to say rough, because I spent hours showering dogs, and smell like one too. Sorry to your shirt, you’re going to reek in a minute.”

He presses a kiss on my matted hair in answer, and it makes my stomach do a tiny dance.

“I’m sad to bring him back,” I tell him. “That’s the worst part of working with dogs. You can’t take them all in, but you want to.”

“How do you manage it?” he asks.

“Lots of crying, and wine, and more crying. Sometimes I sleep in the cages overnight. It’s very dramatic.”

He turns us, his hands entirely around my waist as he leans down to me. “You’re an incredibly empathetic person.”