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CUPCAKE RAINBOW GLITTERSHINE

LUKE

The thing about Claire is, she never just shows up.

She arrives—like a storm in heels, plan already locked and loaded.

And since she rolled into town, she’s shown up at least twice a week.

Each time pretending like we’re still co-founders, still…

something. Like she didn’t walk out of my life with barely a backward glance.

Maddie has suggested stalking—like maybe Claire’s watching me. She even showed up at The Trading Post one night. But she hasn’t knocked on my front door, so it seems like she’s following some kind of unspoken boundaries.

But the worst part about seeing her? Her words haven’t left my head.

Corporate expansion. Investors. Franchises. Hell, she even mentioned rebranding. Like I haven’t poured everything I’ve got into this place.

And the worst part is, she isn’t entirely wrong.

I’ve been dragging through staff meetings, short with Maddie, and way too distracted to be a good instructor in the past few classes. I find myself zoning out at night, wondering if maybe my version of Squeaky Bum is too small. Too focused. Too… personal.

So this morning, I call Ray.

He answers on the second ring with his usual, “You better not need bail money.”

“Not this time.”

Ray hears the edge in my voice. “Talk to me.”

I pace the back hallway while staff reset holds on the south wall. “Claire’s been hovering. And pitching big ideas.”

A pause. “Let me guess. National expansion. Team of consultants. A new logo that looks like it was ripped from an energy drink.”

“Basically.”

Ray sighs. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

“That she’s pushing the wrong vision?”

“No, kid. That you built this place. Chicago was mine. Indy? That’s all you. Don’t let anyone, ex-girlfriend or not, gaslight you into thinking you didn’t do it right.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “It’s just… she’s loud. And persistent. And she knows how to push all the right buttons.”

Ray chuckles. “Yeah, well. So do toddlers. Doesn’t mean we let them redecorate the living room.”

It breaks the tension in my chest just enough to laugh.

By the time I hang up, I feel steadier. Claire’s still circling, but I’m not going to let her pull me under. The conversation with Ray was exactly what I needed.

And I’ve got more important things to do today—like helping a certain photographer fall in love with a four-legged pup that is bound to help her pretend she’s not slowly becoming a dog person with a zip code.

A few hours later, I’m driving north of Indy with Stella.

“I swear, if you take me to a warehouse full of climbing gear, this officially counts as a work meeting.”

Stella’s in my passenger seat, one leg tucked under her, body turned toward me and sunglasses pushed into her hair.

It’s been a good week between us—quiet, easy, real.

Real dates. Real talks. Real time. We didn’t talk about it, but we’ve dropped the “non” date part of whatever we’re calling this thing between us.

I smirk. “What if I said it was a warehouse full of future heartbreak and unconditional love?”

She tilts her head. “So… a Costco?”

“Close,” I say, pulling into the gravel lot behind a small red-brick building with a handmade sign: Second Chance Paws Rescue.

She turns to me slowly. “Luke.”

“Don’t freak. We’re just visiting.”

“You brought me to look at dogs?”

“I brought you to play with puppies. One of our regulars, Joni, the yoga climber with the braid that looks like a rope? Well, she runs this place. She’s trying to set up an adoption event at Squeaky soon, and when she mentioned it…” I glance at her. “I thought of you.”

Her voice is quiet. “Because of Lilly?”

“And because of you.”

We step inside, and Joni gives us the VIP tour and then straight to the puppy playpen.

Furballs of chaos and joy tumble toward us the second we kneel down. Stella laughs—really laughs—and it hits me how rare it is to hear her like that. Unfiltered.

And then she sees it.

A small but scrappy pup with a silky black coat, like ink under sunlight, and expressive brown eyes that seem way too wise for her age.

A splash of white cuts across it’s chest and runs down the front paws.

It’s ears don’t quite match—one flops halfway over while the other stands up like it’s trying to tune into two different radio stations.

The pup sits in the corner like it’s not quite sure if it wants to join the circus or take a nap.

Stella freezes. “Oh. no.”

“Oh, yes,” I say, grinning.

The puppy perks up, looking right at Stella. It doesn’t bounce out of the pen like the others. It’s saunters—like it already knows who it wants and it’s here to collect.

“I didn’t come here to get a dog,” she mutters, stroking behind its ear.

“I know.”

“I didn’t even tell Harper I was thinking about a dog.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not ready to?—”

“Look, she has eyebrows.”

Stella glares at me. “You’re cheating.”

“She picked you, Trouble. Not the other way around.”

Stella sits down on the floor, crosses her legs, and the puppy crawls right into her lap, then stretches up and starts licking Stella’s neck and face. She starts talking quietly to the little pup and that tail just wags and wags.

Game over.

I make sure to give some of the older dogs attention and scratch as many ears as I can, because Stella is smitten, and the puppy doesn’t give her a chance to look at any other dogs.

The adoption papers are filled out before we leave. Stella doesn’t even argue.

Much.

PetSupply smells like rubber toys and anxiety.

Stella’s pushing the cart with one hand, chewing on her lip while scanning the aisle like she’s trying to memorize the nutritional value of ten different dog treats.

I’m carrying the puppy—who’s already passed out in my arms like she’s had a long day of wooing her new family. Which, I guess, she has.

“She needs a name before we pick a tag,” I say, holding up a heart-shaped one that says Princess.

Stella arches a brow. “You really think we’re heart-shaped tag people?”

I glance down at the little lump of fur in my arms. “She’s literally shaped like a heart. It feels thematically appropriate.”

“She’s Lilly’s dog,” she says, tossing a plush squirrel into the cart. “Which means she gets to name her. And we don’t interfere.”

“I don’t know… what if Lilly names her Sparkle Pants?”

“Then we smile and call her Sparkle Pants.”

I gasp. “You’d just roll over like that?”

“She's six,” Stella says, deadpan. “This is her dream. If she wants to name her Cupcake Rainbow Glittershine, I’ll buy the tag myself.”

“I’m just saying, she’s got Tank energy. Maybe even something like Moose.”

“She weighs less than thirty pounds.”

“She’s small but terrifying. It’s a vibe.”

“I’m vetoing Meatball, by the way.”

“Bold of you to assume you have veto power.”

She glares at me, but there’s a laugh threatening to escape. She knows that I could easily see Lilly go for Meatball.

I sneak a squeaky donut toy into the cart. She sees it and narrows her eyes.

“She needs enrichment,” I say, totally serious.

“You need adult supervision.”

“Also true.”

Here to buy everything Stella needs for a six-month-old pitsky puppy.

The cart is nearly full already. A husky–pit bull mix should be fun and will probably keep Stella on her toes for a while.

But I don’t think she could have picked out a more loving and loyal dog.

This little pup is already in love with her—and I think it might be mutual.

I’m still watching her, how she absentmindedly scratches behind the puppy’s ear, her other hand trailing along the cart handle, when she catches me.

“What?” she says, eyes narrowing, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“Nothing,” I say, too fast.

“You’re looking at me like I adopted you.”

I grin. “You do kind of have that effect on strays.”

She laughs, but the color rises in her cheeks, and she doesn’t look away.

We leave with a bag of food, food and water dishes, a cage, more toys than one pup needs, a bone, a bed that Stella insists she won’t be the one fluffing, and a puppy who’s still asleep in my arms like she already knows she hit the jackpot.

When we walk through the front door, Harper’s in the kitchen, elbow-deep in what looks like some sort of cake mix, and Lilly is at the table with markers scattered across every inch of the space.

“Hey,” Stella calls casually, but there’s a little edge in her voice. The kind that says she’s either excited… or terrified.

Harper looks up and freezes. “What’s that in your arms?”

Lilly twists around. Her jaw drops. “PUPPY?!”

I lower the squirming pup to the floor just as she wakes up and stretches her front paws like a sleepy cartoon character. Then she lets out a tiny yawn that’s more squeak than bark.

Stella crouches beside her. “Lilly, this is your puppy.”

Lilly gasps so hard she hiccups. “Mine? Like mine, mine?”

“Yours,” Stella says, laughing. “She needs a name, a bed, and someone who’s not afraid of a little puppy pee.”

Lilly is already on the floor, hugging the puppy gently while she babbles a string of name suggestions.

“Wiggles! No—Cookie! Or maybe Maple! Or… Sunflower! We’re learning about plants in school, and we’re supposed to pick one that represents growth and change and?—”

“Maple’s got potential,” Harper says, grinning as she walks over to crouch beside them.

“Take her out back!” Stella says. “Let her get used to the yard.”

Lilly’s already scooping the pup up awkwardly—like she’s both precious cargo and the most exciting thing to ever happen to her.

“I’ll unload the truck,” I say, slipping past the squeals of puppy delight and heading back out with the rest of the gear.

As I drop the new crate and a stack of supplies in the entryway, I pause.

There’s laughter coming from the yard, the kind that makes you stop mid-step because it’s too pure to ignore.

Lilly’s giggling, shouting something about “petal paws,” and Stella’s voice floats in behind it, soft and amused.

Harper chimes in with one of those mom laughs, half-proud, half-exasperated.

I take a second, just standing there. This isn't my house. It’s not my family. But it doesn’t feel like I’m intruding.

It feels… good.

Comfortable in a way I didn’t realize I missed.

And damn if I don’t love this version of Stella—loose, barefoot in the grass, half-heartedly trying to stop Lilly from feeding the dog a cracker.

I head out back, stepping into that bubble for a moment, and set the crate down near the patio. No one notices me right away. That’s fine. I’m happy just being here. Watching.

But Stella lingers.

The leash is still in her hand, loose but present, like she’s not sure if she’s leading the dog… or if the dog’s already got a grip on her.

She glances at me once, then again, like she’s working something out. Like she’s deciding whether to let me see what she’s actually feeling.

“I think this is a mistake,” she says.

I lift a brow. “Which part?”

She nods toward the house. “That little furball. This moment. You.”

My chest tightens, but I don’t move. “You regret it?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the silence stretch between us.

“No,” she says finally. Quiet. Honest. “That’s the problem.”

I take a step closer, close enough that I could touch her if I wanted to. But I don’t.

Not yet.

Because she’s still figuring out what to do with everything that’s shifted between us. And if I push, even just a little too hard, I know she’ll bolt.

So instead, I give her a small smile. One that tells her I’m not going anywhere.

And then when I get in my truck and drive away later that evening, I fight the urge to turn around the entire way home.

Because I can feel it.

She’s not running yet.

But she’s close.

And damn it, I don’t want to let her go.