Page 27 of Oh, Puck!
"Again, Biscuit!Again!"
Beck's voice carries across the sprawling back deck of the Morrison Beach Mansion, high-pitched and ecstatic. I'm sprawled on one of the lounge chairs by the infinity pool, sunglasses on, a beer in my hand, pretending I'm anywhere but here.
It's not working.
The mansion stretches behind me, with big enormous windows and weathered wood, a modern architectural masterpiece that somehow feels like home. The infinity pool glitters in the sun, cascading into an invisible horizon where the Pacific meets the sky. Palm trees sway in the breeze, their fronds shadowing the decking where I've been laid out ever since we got home from practice.
Yep.
This place is paradise.
With one tiny, infuriating exception.
"Yes!Good boy! Who's a good boy?!"
I crack one eye open.
The dog, thestray, the creature that has somehow taken up residence in my goddamn bedroom for two whole days, is sitting on the grass below the deck, tongue lolling, tail wagging so hard his entire back end is swaying.
He's watching Beck with the kind of adoring attention that usually reserved for people holding steak.
Mason is crouched beside him, a training treat in his hand. "Okay, Biscuit.Down."
The dog drops like a sack of potatoes.
"YES!" Beck pumps his fist. "HE DID IT! DID YOU SEE THAT, DEC?!"
"I saw it," I mutter, taking a long pull of my beer. "I also saw him shit on the rug this morning, so maybe let's not throw a parade."
Beck gasps, shooting daggers my way. "He'slearning. And he was just as embarrassed about that as we were."
The dog's tail wags so hard his entire back end threatens to detach from his spine. He's staring at Mason like Mason's his entire world, which, fine… he did feed him this morning.
But the dog has slept inMYbed. For two nights. Without fail.
"Okay, okay, one more time," Beck says, crouching beside Mason. He holds up a treat. "Biscuit.High-five."
The dog lifts a paw. Beck loses his goddamn mind.
"YES!Oh my god, he's the smartest dog who ever lived!"
I take another pull of my beer, watching this circus unfold. "You're setting the bar real low there, Beck."
"Shut up, you love him."
"I don't love anything that sheds on my pillow."
"I just wish you'd start using his name. It'sBiscuit.Because he stole one off the counter," Mason says, scratching the dog's flopped ear. "Remember?"
"Of course I remember! The mutt stole it offmyplate," I grumble.
Beck covers 'Biscuit's' ears. "Don't call him that!"
"I'm just saying. If I find him on my bed again, I'm renaming him." I sip my beer. "ToPancake.Because he'll be real flat. Real fast."
Beck's mouth drops, but I ignore whatever comes out of his mouth and go back to my well-earned midday beer.
Diego, our house manager, emerges from the open doors with a fresh pitcher of iced tea. He's thirty-one, lean and fit in a way that suggests Pilates and good decisions, with golden-brown skin and dark eyes that are permanently evaluating everything in his line of sight.
