ARIA
Bubbles is my constant companion, and truthfully, I couldn’t ask for a better buddy. She’s so intelligent that sometimes I forget she’s a dog and start talking to her like a girlfriend. I know she doesn’t understand most of it, but she stares into my eyes with her big soulful ones. It gives me the illusion of having a confidant.
We start every morning with a hike, scrabbling along the rocky trails inside of Carson’s gated community. When we get back, she gets her fancy raw breakfast—the ones prepped by an actual chef using ingredients I’ve never even been able to buy myself. Before now, at least.
We do short training sessions all day, mixed in with lots of play to keep her energy in check, but Bubbles does amazingly well. I don’t know what was wrong with her previous trainers, but I can sure as hell tell you where they had their heads stuffed. It’s dark and smelly. She’s a good dog, I really just don’t think they were addressing her emotional issues, or the separation anxiety caused by losing Sara.
But every day, Bubbles does better and better. I test leaving her alone for a minute at a time, rewarding and reinforcing good behavior each time I come back. We work up to longer breaks, hitting five minutes by the fourth day, faster than I’d even hoped.
Every evening we eat dinner, then go out back to play fetch. And I wait, heart racing behind my ribs, because every evening since our first video chat, Carson has called to check in. His calls come like clockwork, sending a rush of excitement through me when my phone starts to vibrate.
Sometimes we do a video chat so he can see Bubble’s progress, but increasingly, we just… talk. I don’t know how it started, but he keeps dragging stories out of me about the dogs I’ve walked. He laughs at all of them, his chuckle deep and rumbly. And the more he laughs, the more I want.
I keep telling myself it’s just friendly banter, but every time his name lights up my phone, a thrill runs through me. Excitement and warmth that absolutely does not feel merelyfriendly.
So, when my phone buzzes for the sixth night in a row, I chuck the ball as far as I can and excitedly glance at the screen. My fingers tremble from the anticipation of hearing his voice. They tremble so badly I almost miss the great big ‘answer’ button. “I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Jones,” I say, trying to control the breathy quality in my voice by foregoing any other greeting. Thanks to a ‘fake it till you make it’ childhood, I’m good at sounding more confident than I feel. Usually.
“Oh, yeah?” His words wash over me, sending those shivers whispering along my skin. “What did I do?”
“Well, my bank called today with a concern. And I quote: ‘Ma’am, are you aware your account received an anomalous wire transfer?’”
Carson gives me one of those soul-tingling chuckles. I can just picture the way he rubs his thumb along that full lower lip, and the thought is enough to make me melt. “I was under the impression I was supposed to pay you. That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but you had them wiresixhundred grand, and when I tried to send the extra back, I was told that they were ‘unable to complete’ my request per your instructions.” I leave out the part where the customer service representative questioned me like she thought I was trying to commit bank fraud. Considering my account had never gone higher than $1500 before that day, I guess I can understand their concern.
“Aria, I’m going to say something horrible, and please don’t think less of me for it.” He hasn’t lost the joking tone, but something in the way he says it belies the mask of confidence.
“Okay,” I laugh. “I promise. Say your horrible thing.”
“I could torch a hundred grand every day for a year and my financial team wouldn’t even blink. Consider it a bonus for starting immediately. Or a progress bonus, because God knows you’ve worked miracles with her already.”
My face heats at his praise. “You’re right, that is horrible!”
He laughs out loud, and I can almost see him shaking his head side to side, blond hair falling across his face. “In my eyes, Aria, you’ve earned it.” The heat under my skin reaches a flash point. I’mweakfor this man. I’m weak for his voice. Weak for his praise. Weak for his laugh.
Letting my crush get the better of me is a dangerous thing. Just because he’s generous doesn’t mean he’s flirting with me. I’ve seen countless videos of him on the red carpet, his world-famous grin flashing at reporter after reporter. Carson Jones is a golden god. And what am I?
You’re not special. You’re just plain trailer trash that no one wants.Even in my head, over a decade later, my mother’s words cut through me like a knife, just as deep and painful as the last time I heard them.
Carson’s voice cuts through the memory. “I should be heading back in the next few days, but there’s another surprise for you inside.”
“What?” I ask, bewildered. “Why?”
“Because Henrietta said you didn’t have much when you moved in. And because I’m grateful for you taking Bubbles on. And because I could.”
“But—wait—I—" I sputter.
“Check your closet. Keep what you like, my stylist will replace anything you don’t. Just do me a favor?”
“Another favor? Why do I feel like doingyoufavors just keeps benefittingme?” I ask wryly.
“Henrietta says you’re working all day, every day and barely eat.”
“Well, no,” I snort. “I mean, yes, Bubbles and I work together most of the day, but that’s my job, isn’t it? And I eat! I have peanut butter and jelly in the kitchen.”
“Well, here’s the favor, Aria.”God, his voice when he says my name…his words are firm, impossible to ignore or disobey. “I told you to make yourself at home. That wasn’t a platitude. The pool, the sauna, the theater, the meals in the fridge, they’re all there to be enjoyed. It would make me happy ifyouenjoyed them. If you don’t feel comfortable treating it like your own home, think of it as a working vacation, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer hesitantly, unable to contain my smile. “You’re going to spoil me, though.”