Kerri Carpenter - The Dating Arrangement

He’d have to take her word for it, since he was hardly any kind of wedding aficionado.

“Talk to you soon,” she said before flouncing out the front door.

Since the bar wasn’t open for business yet, Jack flipped the lock. Not that customers would be clambering to get in when he did open the doors for happy hour. Aside from the engaged Ms. Mitchell, soon to be Mrs. Cross, interest in The Wright Drink lay only with a handful of regulars who had been frequenting the place since Jack was a child.

Not for the first time today, his fingers twitched as he reached for the MIA pack of cigarettes he gave up six months ago.

He walked to the back of the room and glanced at the pile of bills spread across the long, wooden bar in front of him. Jack cracked his knuckles. He probably needed reading glasses. Just like his old man had worn.

His old man.

Jack still couldn’t believe he was gone. While he knew his dad loved him, they hadn’t been particularly close in years. No games of catch in the backyard, after dinner. After all, it was hard to do anything after dinner when you didn’t usually sit down for a traditional meal. But that’s what came of a dad who owned a bar. He’d spent all of his time at The Wright Drink when Jack was a kid. And the bar had thrived.

If he believed Trina’s account, and he had no reason not to, the bar had taken a turn for the worse within the last year. According to several of his dad’s friends, that’s when his father’s health had started to deteriorate. Not surprising for someone who had smoked for well over forty years. Still, no one could ever prepare for the call that their dad had passed away.

Those same friends had also informed Jack that even though his dad’s health had been declining, he refused to stop working at the bar. He came in rain or snow, good health or bad. Looking around now, he could see that The Wright Drink had suffered as much as his dad.

After high school graduation, Jack had gone off to college on a baseball scholarship and played in the minors for a couple of years, until a knee injury put an end to that. He’d decided to travel. Backpacked through Europe. Spent some time in both Brazil and Iceland—talk about polar opposites. Eventually he’d settled in Vegas. He’d begun dealing at the blackjack tables at a fancy casino, as a favor to a friend. He’d actually enjoyed interacting with different people every night. He had worked hard and moved up the ranks, until he was a supervisor, overseeing the whole casino floor.

Jack began to pace; his long legs were eating up the distance from behind the bar, through the area of high-top tables and past the cluster of wall-mounted television sets. Another trait he’d inherited from his father.

Still, no amount of walking was going to get him out of this jam. His father had died of a very sudden heart attack, and he’d left the bar and his house to Jack. The Wright Drink had seen better days. It needed a cosmetic overhaul. It also needed a financial miracle. The pile of bills wasn’t going to shrink itself.

In their weekly—okay, sometimes more like biweekly—phone calls, James Wright had never let on that he was in trouble. If he had...

Jack stopped pacing. He would have what? Dropped what he was doing and rushed back home to Virginia? Probably not. The painful grasp of guilt wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

His mother had died when he was a freshman in high school. Both he and his dad took her death hard. His dad retreated into himself. As the owner of a business, he’d already spent a ton of time at the bar, but after his mother’s death, his dad had managed to devote even more time and attention to work. He’d stopped asking how school was going or putting in appearances at Jack’s baseball games.

He’d stopped caring.

Jack and this bar were the only things his father had. Although, only one of them seemed to get any attention from the old man.

Jack tried—mostly unsuccessfully—to shake off the sullen mood. He started to make his way into the small room his dad used as an office, when someone rapped on the front door.

Jack really wanted to tell whoever it was that the bar was still closed, but he was in no position to turn away possible business. He made easy work of crossing the room and opened the door to find his father’s lawyer and good friend standing there, holding a large tote bag, a small dog and a big grin.

“Jack, my boy, how’s it going?”

Fred Koda had been calling almost every day. Sadly, Jack’s answer to his standard greeting never changed.

“Same.”

Jack eyed the dog in Fred’s arms. He judged him to be about twenty, maybe twenty-five, pounds. He was a very light beige color and had lots of fur; he definitely had to be part poodle. He had a light brown nose, which his little pink tongue darted out to lick. Jack peered closer. The dog had green eyes. Very human-looking green eyes.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Jack said.

“I don’t.” Fred held the dog out to Jack. “But you do.”

Jack froze. “Excuse me?”

Fred pushed the dog into Jack’s arms. The dog immediately licked Jack’s chin. Fred waltzed into the bar. “This was your dad’s dog.”

What the what? “My father never mentioned a dog, and I haven’t seen any dog-related stuff at my dad’s house.”

“When James had his heart attack, I went over to the house and collected all of the food, treats, toys and beds I could find. He’s been living with me since that day. With you inheriting the bar and losing your dad, I didn’t want to bombard you.” He scratched the dog’s head. “Meet your new roommate, Cosmo.”

“Cosmo? What kind of name is Cosmo?” The realization hit him fast and hard. His mother didn’t drink much, but when she did, she always had a cosmopolitan.

Jack followed Fred into the bar. “Listen, Fred, I appreciate you taking care of this little guy. He is a guy, right?” Jack held the dog up and looked to his nether regions. “But I can’t take a dog.”

Fred grinned wider. “He was left to you. You are Cosmo’s new owner. But I’m going to miss our man time,” he said to the dog. “Cosmo likes to snuggle and watch TV.”

Swell. “That’s cute and all. But seriously, I can’t take this dog.”

The ironic part was that Jack used to beg for hours on end to get a dog when he was a little kid. Now here he was, shunning that boyhood dream.

Cosmo squirmed in Jack’s arms until he got comfortable. Then he licked Jack right on the mouth.

“Yuck.”

Fred chuckled. “He likes to give kisses.” He held up the tote bag before placing it on a nearby table. “Everything you need is in here. Food, toys, files from the vet. Cosmo’s a rescue.”

“My dad rescued a dog?” It was so strange that he wouldn’t mention something like that to Jack.

“Just about a year ago,” Fred said. “I think he needed a friend.”

Jack let out a long exhale, which did nothing to alleviate the hurt and guilt Fred’s comment had lodged in his throat. Intuitively, Cosmo snuggled closer to Jack, wedging his little head under Jack’s chin.

“Some other tips,” Fred said. “Cosmo is part poodle, but I’m not sure what he’s mixed with. So he doesn’t shed. He’s housebroken. He’s also very playful, takes two long walks a day, likes squeaky toys, hates the vacuum. Oh and he’s kind of a Velcro dog.”

“Velcro dog? What does that mean?”

Fred actually appeared to be a little sheepish. “He’s clingy.”

Great. Jack sighed. “Fred, Cosmo is really cute.” And he was. He would have been exactly the kind of dog he’d wanted when he was little. “But I can’t take him. I don’t even know if I’m staying in town.”