With a single cry, Chevron lays at her feet, subdued.

“She’s joking,” I console him.

“I’m not,” Nikki insists.

Chevron wails again and nuzzles her bare feet with his wet nose.

Nikki tries to remain aloof, but her resolve breaks. “All right.” She leans down to pat Chevron’s head, and the good pup tries to jump into her lap. Nikki pets him a little longer and then asks, “So what’s the deal with the dog?”

When I tell her of my plans with Richard, she raises an eyebrow at me. I wish I knew how to do that skeptical expression. If I tried to raise just one brow in a sassy way, I’d end up looking ridiculous.

“No comment,” Nikki says.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just saving the ‘I told you so’ for later.”

“What exactly did you tell me?”

“That the dog is staying… Hmm, what else?” Nikki gives me a shrewd look to clue me into the fact that she’s really talking about Richard. I play dumb, so she adds, “Anyway, I’ll be gone tonight.”

“Where to this time?” Video marketing is the best job; she gets to travel so much.

“Just upstate for the night; gotta get ready. The crew is picking me up in”—she looks at her watch—“twenty minutes.”

Nikki turns around the bar and hugs me goodbye then bends down to scratch Chevron behind the ears. The puppy is so ecstatic that he follows her to her room.

I go after them and turn right instead of left to reach my bedroom. Since I have to walk, I change into a pair of pants and a blouse so that I can wear gym shoes for the crossing to Brooklyn without appearing too weird. Foldable flats do the trick only for short trips. I grab my duffel bag from under the bed where it’s been since my breakup with Gerard, and put together a basic dog-at-the-office survival kit. A bag of dog cookies, a bowl for food, another bowl for water, and, for me, a pair of high-wedged pink All Stars. No matter if I’m in sportswear, no one can see me without heels. At the last minute, I add a bundle of plastic bags.

There. Now I’m ready for any doggy situation.

***

As soon as Chevron steps a paw into the office, he becomes the center of attention. I leave him with grungy Saffron and vintage Ada to go drop the duffel bag at my workstation.

There’s a big bowl of oranges placed on the desk. How odd. I’m about to take out Chevron’s water bowl and fill it when Hugo, the ginger News Editor, comes near my desk with two weird metallic mugs.

“Want some coffee?” he asks, offering me one.

“Oh, wow. Thanks.” Hugo never makes me coffee. Where does the extra-nice attitude come from?