Color Me Pretty: A Father's Best Friend Romance

“No.”

My answer didn’t deter her. “Come on, Theo. Ramsay is some sort of Pomeranian mix. It isn’t like he’ll get much bigger which means he won’t take up much space in that big old house of yours. And it’d be good for you.”

“How do you reason that?”

“You’re by yourself. A dog would be perfect company. Plus, I’ll come by and take care of him. I’ll buy him food, a bed, toys, everything he’ll need. You’ll just maybe need to take him outside occasionally.”

“Della—”

She latched onto my arm, her eyes widening into those goddamn puppy dog ones she used to shoot me with when she was little. It got me then and it still did now.

Son of a bitch.

The dog was ugly. Whatever it was mixed with didn’t do it any favors, and Della was right. It was too skinny. The ribs were evident through the patches of fur missing, but it seemed to be in good spirits despite its poor nutrition. But did I want a dog? No. Once upon a time I’d considered it, but a bigger one. One that could hold down the house when I was away, so people knew not to fuck with me. Whatever ran around our feet was no more than the size of a rodent. I’d seen bigger cats.

I cursed again when I met Della’s eyes. I knew better than to believe she’d relent. The idea was set in her head, so the chances of the dog showing up at my house when I was at work was more than likely.

Sighing, I stared down at the dog. “Is it housebroken at all?”

“Well…” Before she could answer, the fucker started peeing right there in front of us.

“Ramsay!” Della chided, frantically looking around. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed paper towels from the counter and frowned when Ramsay ran into her room.

She looked at me. “So, he needs some work, but I can handle it. I’ll get him a crate while he’s being trained. It’ll all work out.”

I didn’t believe it, but I played along while she told me all about how much she wanted a pet. As if I didn’t know. As if I hadn’t almost caved hundreds of times and surprised her with a damn kitten, bunny, puppy, anything she wanted.

But I didn’t.

And now?

Fuck me.

I had a damn dog for a roommate.

“Do you want anything to eat?” It was the third time Della had asked within a two-hour period and I hadn’t meant to snap at her, but I’d had a bad day and didn’t want to be bothered. I’d told her to leave me alone and get her fucking dog away from me because it’d been driving me nuts all day demanding attention.

Truthfully, he hadn’t been that bad. He’d had an accident in the morning, and I’d caught him gnawing on one of the kitchen chairs. Did I care? Hardly. I cleaned up his mess, scolded him, and gave him a toy to chew on instead. But the day had been trying with clients that continuously pissed me off and another email had dropped about a different partnership with somebody even less enthusing than Richard Pratt.

I could have apologized to her sooner, but I knew it would be better to put space between us. She cooked something for herself based on the smell of spice wafting into my office, and I was sure she’d gone to walk the dog when the door opened and closed sometime later. Now? The quiet hum of the television greeted me as I walked into the den to see her cross-legged on the couch with a sketchpad on her lap, the dog by her side, and a show about aliens on the TV screen.

Immediately, she looked up at me. “I’m sorry if Ramsay shouldn’t be on the furniture, but he seemed a little off and he calmed right down when he settled there.”

Of course, he would. Anybody would if they got to be next to her for even a second. I didn’t relay that information to her though. “It doesn’t matter to me.” If I’d still had the leather couch that Mariska bought, maybe I would have given a shit given how hyper the dog was. Then again, would I have really cared if he ripped the cushions? No. Not if it meant pissing my ex-wife off in some way. Not that it mattered, considering she’d taken the furniture set that she was adamant about picking out when we moved in,

along with a few other pieces—art, mostly. It was the only way she and Della had gotten along. They both enjoyed going to exhibits in the city, especially new ones that were limited time, so they could talk about whatever the hell method was used or where they felt something would go in the house.

“You’re angry,” she murmured, moving the pad off her lap. Today she donned basic jeans and a gray shirt that’s collar showed a little too much cleavage from the deep V.

“I’m not.”

“You’re glowering.” Was I?

“Thinking about Mariska.” It was all it took for understanding to cross her face. She reached over and ran a hand down the dog’s back. Ramsay stretched out beside her in satisfaction.

“Did she call you?”

“What?”