Page 22 of Finding Mr. July

L aughter is the first thing I hear walking into the pet store Sunday evening. Low masculine notes of joy resonate through the air, interspersed with quiet conversation. Or maybe it isn’t conversation—I only hear one voice, and it’s Jonathan’s.

I expect to find him on the phone or setting up camera equipment—images already ingrained in my mind. I do not expect to walk in on him sprawled like a starfish on the floor covered in beagle puppies. Yet here we are.

I pause in the doorway to take in the scene.

We’ve had to improvise this indoor setup so there’s fake grass on the floor and fake plants scattered about.

Theo will be in a sleeping bag with the puppies around him, and then Jonathan will do his photo editing magic and superimpose a campfire in the foreground.

He’s assured me it will look like they’re ready for a night beneath the stars.

Jonathan laughs again as he tries to protect his face from puppy slobber. Two of them have paws on his shoulders, the other five are doing their best to pin the rest of him down like he’s Gulliver.

“Come on, guys,” Jonathan chuckles. “You’ve got to let me sit up.

We talked about this. There’s only one of me and seven of you.

” He lifts the one closest to his face straight up in the air with one hand.

I think he’s going to move it away from him, but instead he puts the tiny tail-wagger down on top of his chest. For all his protestations, it’s obvious he’s loving his current predicament.

I watch for another minute, my heart turning progressively gooier at the sight.

Is this the monosyllabic, people-repellant man who rescued me from the pantry three weeks ago?

This man who wrestles with puppies and offers to make exes jealous in the best of ways?

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip at the thought.

My plan until this moment has been not to bring up last night.

To pretend it didn’t happen. But seeing him like this, my convictions are on shaky ground.

To avoid dwelling, I step into the room. Jonathan has finally made it up to sitting, but the puppies are still climbing all over him, tugging on his gray fleece and nipping playfully at his fingers.

“Hi there,” I say when he doesn’t notice me.

His gaze flies to mine. “Holly. Hey.” He grins but doesn’t make a move to get up.

I set my bag on a chair along the wall. “Having fun?”

“I fucking love puppies.”

He says it with such gusto that I have to laugh. “Could have fooled me.”

He lifts one of the squirming creatures into his lap. “This one is Elvis. I had a beagle growing up. Milo. They’re the best dogs.” He pats the floor next to him. “Here, come sit.”

I hesitate. The invite is tempting, especially when expressed in that warm cadence that speaks of a certain familiarity. The idea of being close to him again hasn’t left me alone since we parted last night. “Where are Marla and Theo?” I ask.

“Right here.” Marla appears in the doorway to the back office, effectively shutting down any such ideas. “Theo forgot the sleeping bag at home. He should be back soon. Are you all set?”

“Pretty much,” Jonathan says.

A small puppy who keeps circling me gets bolder when I squat down to her level. “Hi, little one,” I coo.

“That’s Dolly. She’s the runt.” Marla steps closer. “I think she likes you.”

No sooner has she said this than Dolly digs her tiny teeth into the bottom hem of my jeans leg. I gently free it from her jaws. “Oh no, you don’t. I don’t care how cute you are.”

“That’s puppies for you.” Marla smiles. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some puppy pads to put down.”

“Did you ever have a dog?” Jonathan asks once Marla is gone.

I shake my head, keeping a careful eye on Dolly at my feet. “My parents wouldn’t let us.” Another bolder puppy puts his paws on my knees as if he wants me to lift him up. I settle for scratching his ears. “But you had Milo? How old were you when you got him?”

“Seven.” He pets Elvis on his lap. “He was my best bud. Slept in my bed and everything. Man, I still miss that dog.”

“How old did he get to be?”

“About twelve. I think.” Something shifts in his voice, going from nostalgia to something rawer. “Mom took him with her when she left, so I only got three years with him.” He shrugs, but within that movement is contained much more than indifference.

I gape at him. “She took your dog?”

“Technically, he was her dog. She did all the work. But yeah.”

I finally sit down next to him and am instantly attacked by three new wiggling mischief-makers. Jonathan points to each of them in turn. “That’s Lennon, Cash, and Joplin. Cash is the alpha.”

“How do you already know their names?”

“I may have gotten here early.” His eyes crinkle.

For a while, we direct our attention only toward the dogs, sitting in companionable silence.

But our proximity reminds me of the unspoken things between us, and I’ve never been particularly good at feigning ignorance.

With a glance in the direction Marla disappeared, I put my hand on Jonathan’s knee.

Just a light stroke of the thumb. “I’m sorry you lost Milo like that.

It must have made your mom leaving even harder. I can’t believe she did that.”

He watches my hand. “That she left or that she took Milo?”

“Both. But taking your dog almost seems crueler in a way. Maybe that’s weird.”

“No. I missed them both, but now, decades later, it’s Milo I think about the most.” With the stealthy move of someone trying to catch fireflies and ladybugs, his hand covers mine. Warm skin against my cooler.

I swallow hard. Turn my palm up so our fingers can interlace.

“All right, he’s parking.” Marla marches back into the room oblivious to the echoes of last night reverberating against every flat surface of the room.

I pull my hand away and stand. Run it against my jeans.

Jonathan follows. He rolls his shoulders and his neck out before stepping up to the camera waiting on its tripod and taking hold of it as if in need of support.

“Let’s put some of these down so we avoid more accidents.” Marla places puppy pads outside our faux turf area and calls for the puppies to join her, tempting them with small treats.

Theo enters the room, carrying a sleeping bag and a big boulder that’s either fake or proof he’s the Hulk. “I figured this might work in the background,” he says, setting his cargo down. “Where do you want me?”

Jonathan consults the viewfinder. “Try a couple of steps forward from where you are. Head over there, feet there.” He points before facing me. “Holly, come have a look.”

Me? He’s never wanted my input before. Nevertheless, I join him and put my eye to the camera.

He’s standing so close that my left shoulder almost touches his chest, and in this huddle of him and me and the camera, the rest of the room is reduced to miniature movements through the lens.

I’m instantly more aware of every intake and exhale of air (mine) and every shift of muscle (his).

It’s impossible to concentrate with him right there, and it doesn’t get easier when he shows me how to adjust focus.

As I twist the lens, his fingers brush against my knuckles in featherlight guidance.

“Good?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.

A full-body shiver skates through me. “Mm-hmm.”

Marla steps into view in the foreground of the mini-image, making me jerk back. She’s carrying two of the puppies. “Okay, let’s get this going before chaos descends,” she says. “Where do you want Joplin and Cash?”

Jonathan’s departure is too abrupt for my liking as he moves into the scene we’ve set up, but it’s impressive how quickly he switches to professional mode.

“Theo, if you can get into the sleeping bag. Rest your arm on the ground like so. Good.” He returns to my side and adjusts a ground spotlight that illuminates Theo’s face in an approximation of glow from a fire.

“Shirt off, too,” I say as a reminder.

Jonathan smiles up at me. “Mine or his?”

My lips part as something between a hiccup and a chuckle escapes me. “Um…” What’s the right answer here? “I’ll settle for his,” I say. “For now.”

His eyes darken as his smile extends into a wolfish grin. Then he nods once.

It’s at that moment I realize that, for him, slowing things down last night was only a slowing down. Not a full stop. Lord have mercy.

Somehow we get through the shoot. Marla and I tag-team to corral the puppies while simultaneously doing our best to stay out of the shot. It’s like whack-a-mole but with less whacking and fewer moles. When one puppy obeys, another finds an interesting piece of lint off-camera.

Theo poses like a pro, though, and by the end of it, Jonathan is happy.

“These edits will take a little longer to get to you,” he says. “But you won’t be disappointed.”

“I already know that,” I say, which earns me another flash of his pearly whites.

Once we’re packed up, I help him carry equipment to the car.

We take several trips since we have extra props, so Theo beats us to leaving, the fake boulder strapped to his flatbed truck.

On our final turn to the car, the parking lot is dark and quiet, only illuminated by two yellow streetlights.

The last box doesn’t fit in the trunk, so Jonathan loads it into the back seat, and then he comes around to the back where I’m standing.

“That was fun,” he says, cocking his head toward the building while not taking his eyes off my face. He’s stopped three feet away from me, but after an hour of circling each other in the presence of other people, I’m tired of resisting.

“You’re very good with dogs,” I say, moving into his space as subtly as I can. “And I don’t mean just tonight.”

He bridges the last foot between us, forcing me to tilt my head back. I steady myself with a hold on his jacket that awards me a faint hum from deep in his chest.

“Last night was also fun,” I say, diving in. “Did I say thank you for the date?”

He taps a finger against his fuller lower lip. “I’m not sure. Did you?”

“If I didn’t—thank you. And also for being a gentleman.”

“Yeah?” His hands find their way to my hips, pulling me closer.

I shrug. “Pacing is good. You were right.”

“Yet here we are.” He looks up at the moon, and I’m overcome with the impulse to kiss the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple.

I regain control only by tipping my head to his chest.

The tenderness of his lips against my hair sends a befuddling wave of warmth rushing down my spine.

What the heck is this? I’ve never been so torn between wanting to curl up in someone’s embrace and jumping his bones.

My indecision only gets worse when he tucks me close, like he’s protecting me from the world, which also reveals how unmistakably excited his body is at having me there. Which begs the question…

“Are you also confused?” I ask into his chest.

He’s quiet for a beat. “Very,” he says finally.

I’m about to ask him to elaborate when his phone rings in his pocket. The twangy chorus to “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” grows in volume as he pulls the phone out. “My dad,” he says. “Sorry. Hold on.”

To my surprise, he stays close to me as he takes the call. I can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but Jonathan’s short “mm-hmm,” “no worries,” and “yeah, not long” tell me enough. This is it for tonight.

And sure enough. “Sorry, I’m late getting Dad from his container gardening class. He’s patient to a point, but I’m afraid I’m way past that. I’ve got to go.”

“Fitting ringtone, then,” I say with a smirk. “Rolling Stones,” I clarify when he squints at me.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s sort of an inside joke. But you’re right. Fitting.”

With a low groan, I push him away from me to make it easier to let go. “Guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Maybe I’ll run into you in the rec room.” He winks.

And while I know we’d never do anything in the office when there’s people around, the insinuation alone increases my need for a cold shower tenfold.

“Go,” I say. “Get your dad. Good work tonight.”

There’s a beat of inertia where I think he might stay, say “to hell with Dad,” but then he backs away and opens the driver’s door.

I shiver at a chill in the air I hadn’t noticed until now and wrap my arms around myself.

If this were a normal situation, I’d take matters into my own hands at this point and ask him on a second date to move things along.

I’ve never been one for waiting around for the guy.

But this isn’t normal. I’m not planning on being here for much longer, so asking him out wouldn’t be fair.

And he’s a smart guy—he probably realizes that.

Hence his comment about things being “complicated.” The date last night was an anomaly.

No, I need to be fine with the status quo, I think as I walk to my car. Then I head home with new resolve to keep it in my pants until the other pieces of my life are settled.