Poosh was mine now.

I still lived in hope that me, a six-foot-three firefighter with tattoos and muscles would one day get something a little more… masculine… than an eight-inch tall purse poodle.

I flicked through the channels until I found the sports news. There was a rundown of the football scores from last weekend and a look at the division standings, but that was as far as I made it before I zoned out.

Scratching Poosh behind the ear, I found my gaze falling down to my phone on the coffee table.

It was fucking ridiculous.

I didn’t even know Reagan. Why the hell was I here, fawning over her as if she was my ex-girlfriend who’d just broken up with me?

I knew why.

Sadly, I did.

I was used to texting her. When I wasn’t at work, all this week, I’d been talking to her. It’d filled my time and passed the minutes until we either had to work or sleep. A few days ago, this very time would have been filled with the back and forth of our banter.

“Ah, fuck it, Poosh,” I muttered, leaning forward and grabbing my phone. She yipped at the disturbance of the sofa cushion and then, for my insolence, farted.

Being a dog dad was not the way I’d imagined it to be.

I unlocked my phone and opened my text messages. Just as I did, a new message came through, and my chat with Reagan showed up bold.

She’d beaten me to it.

REAGAN: They finally let me home. I want to go back. My great-aunt is driving me insane.

ME: How are you feeling?

REAGAN: Like I almost died.

REAGAN: Then got thrown into the nuthouse when the hospital let me out.

ME: That bad, huh?

REAGAN: She won’t leave me alone. I’m in my old bedroom and there’s a poster of Justin Timberlake with noodle hair.

ME: Noodle hair?

REAGAN: *attachment*

I clicked the image to open it. A picture of Justin circa… God, sometime in the damn Noughties filled my phone screen. His hair was jelled to within an inch of its life and colored a yellowish-blonde.

Yep.

Noodle hair.

ME: That’s a little scary. Why is he looking at you like that?

REAGAN: 10 years ago, it was because he wanted to marry me. Now, he looks like he wants to kill me.

ME: Why not just take it down?

REAGAN: My aunt won’t let me get out of bed. I think she thinks I was in the ICU.

ME: It’s nice that she cares.

REAGAN: If she escorts me to the bathroom again, she’ll be the one in ICU.

ME: That’s probably a jailable offense. Two emergency services in one week is enough.

REAGAN: I like to do things properly. A round three seems like the way to finish the weekend.

ME: Reagan. No.

REAGAN: Fine.

REAGAN: But if Great-Aunt Bethel is found dead under the bed, I’m holding you personally responsible.

ME: DNA will prove otherwise.