Cal was seated on the concrete floor of the kennel, Stella's head resting comfortably in his lap. He stroked her velvety ears, admiring the sheen of her coarse silver fur. It was clear what needed to be done. Pulling out his phone, he dispatched a quick message to Marcus, instructing him to clear his schedule for the day. Work could wait; there were essentials to be bought: dog food, toys, a water dispenser, treats, and everything else Stella could possibly want or need. He was putty in her paws.

The manager's return broke their quiet communion. "Well, that didn't take long!" she observed with a fond smile, "Should I draw up the adoption papers?" 

Standing, Cal's response was immediate. "Absolutely. I'm not leaving until I can take her with me." The manager's smile broadened, pleased by the swift decision. She motioned for him to follow her to the front for the necessary paperwork, and to provide a leash for Stella.

As he turned to leave, a soft whine echoed in the kennel. Cal paused, turning back to offer one more reassuring scratch under Stella's chin. "I'm sorry, old girl," he said warmly, "I'll be right back. And then no one will be walking out on you, ever again." 

With that, he made his way with the manager back through the kennels. "We have a customer in the grooming station," she warned him, "So you may end up getting sprayed with some water, watch out." Cal didn't mind at all. Pristine as his attire may appear, he'd never been opposed to getting his hands dirty. There were far worse things than a bit of water. How many bloodstains had he scrubbed from white dress-shirts over the years? 

Passing through the grooming station, his attention was captured by a soap-covered, sable-coated German shepherd, receiving a thorough grooming. "Well, hello," he gushed, momentarily distracted by the beauty of the animal. Perhaps he'd already found a friend for Stella. He turned toward the nearby couch, where the owner sat. It was a young woman, with light hair and--

[i]Oh, my God.[/i]

"Ana," he blurted, the name falling from his lips before he could catch it. The groomer made a confused face. The room was still with awkward tension. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure with a soft chuckle, his eyes moving between the dog and the woman. "German shepherd, Russian woman. Let me guess, you drive an Italian car?" He grinned at his own joke, his usual charisma restored. "How about a French lunch? There's a lovely little bistro nearby that's dog-friendly. We could make a playdate of it." He restrained the urge to allow his gaze to rake over Ana, who was somehow even more gorgeous in casual attire. His eyes held her gaze firmly, his expression earnest -- if not a bit pleading. This may be his only chance. Two chance encounters in a row, there wasn't a way in hell he could count on a third. "My treat, of course," he added, not trying to hide the tinge of desperation in his voice.

The manager, momentarily forgotten, watched the exchange with a mix of curiosity and confusion, a silent observer.

Cal's thoughts drifted to Stella, waiting for him, but this small detour was worth the delay. Juggling the attention between two pretty girls was nothing new to him, despite how urgently he wanted to get Stella out of this place. 

Cal Crawford was not a man to let an opportunity pass him by.