Worst in Show

by Anna E. Collins

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Best in Show meets You’ve Got Mail in a rivals-to-lovers romcom perfect for fans of Rachel Lynn Solomon and Mhairi McFarlane.

Aspiring fashion designer Cora Lewis should have known better. Entering her grandpa’s extremely adorable—and totally unruly—pups in a dog show? What was she thinking? Oh, right. Her grandpa is injured, his beloved pet shop is losing the fight against the upscale dog boutique across the street, and his business and home are on the line. She needs that prize money to save the day—and if the only way to win is to train with her strongest adversary, then she’ll suck it up and ask for help.

Rival store owner Leo Salinger is everything Cora is not: successful, wealthy, and overly ambitious. She would never guess that he is the kind and witty pen pal she's met on a local message board. But somewhere between teaching pups to heel, fetch, and stay, Cora and Leo are finding a little competition can ignite a serious attraction. Can they stop this sexy spark . . . before all her dreams go to the dogs?
 

Release date: August 13, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

I have dog kibble in my bra. Again. I wish I could say it was on purpose—some kind of genius obedience training technique perhaps—but what really happened was that the thirty-pound bag I was attempting to hoist onto a high shelf in the storage room of my grandpa’s pet store, Happy Paws, burst at the seam at the most inopportune moment.

I should have known what kind of morning I was in for as soon as I got up. The stop button on the toaster in my apartment doesn’t work, so to save my breakfast, I have to unplug the whole thing and fish out my slice at the exact right moment. Today I missed my window, and instead of heeding the sign that I’d be better off going back to bed, I proceeded as if nothing was amiss.

Hence, here I am, ankle-deep in freeze-dried beef and regret.

I shake out my sweater to clear the pet food from my decolletage and take a couple of crunchy steps to the side, but that’s all I have time for before two dervishes come barreling into the room, surrounding me with gleeful barks.

“Good morning, monsters,” I coo, crouching to their level to block them from the heap of tempting nuggets. Cholula, our Chihuahua mix, jumps up and slobbers a wet one across my nose. Her aim is off due to an extensive underbite, but no one can fault her enthusiasm. Cap waits patiently until she’s done, and I reward him with some extra ear scratches for the effort. He’s the oldest of our three remaining shelter dogs—some sort of beagle-terrier combo with a few other breeds peppered in as evidenced by his short brown coat and boxy face. “Did you have breakfast yet?” I ask him, receiving only heavy panting in response.

“Morning, Pop,” I call up the stairs to the small space above the store that my grandpa Harvey had converted from office to apartment after my grandma passed a few years ago.

He appears at the landing above, mug in hand. “Morning, Cora. They ate. Would you like some coffee?”

I free myself of my backpack by the counter and smile at him. “You’ve known me almost twenty-eight years, and you still have to ask?”

He shrugs and heads back into his space. I follow.

“So, what’s on the docket today?” I ask once we’re seated at his small table and the first hit of caffeine has done its thing. I eye the English muffin in front of him. Softening butter and a wedge of hard cheese sit off to the side.

Harvey consults his planner and runs a curled finger down the page. “A couple of deliveries. We’ll have to move the rest of those bully sticks and the pigs’ ears to the front. Two for one I think as we phase them out.”

“One pallet was already delivered. I brought in the bags.”

“That’s what the ruckus was?”

“Minor snafu. Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up. Are you replacing the chewies with anything else?”

“Those cookies we sold last year did well. I’ll call the vendor to see if she still makes them.”

My stomach growls loudly. Mmm, cookies. “Can I have one of those?” I point to his plate.

“In the pantry.”

While I butter the crumbly goodness, I say, “It’s almost October. Maybe I’ll make some more pet costumes? They were pretty popular. And I posted in that online forum on Flockify this morning to see if anyone is looking to have something made, too. Look.” I show him the post.

Living History Illinois Flockify Post, Period Dress Channel

SingerQueen Tuesday 06:53 AM

Hi all, it’s about that time. I’ve got a few spots open for costume commissions—first come basis. Holler at me.

“You’re this ‘SingerQueen’?” Harvey asks, peering up at me above his readers.

“It’s my username. Because my sewing machine is a Singer.”

“Ah. Yes, all good ideas, kiddo.”

That boosts me even more than the coffee and carbs. There are always themed events popping up closer to the holidays, so I should be able to pick up a commissioned outfit or two from the historical reenactment folks online, and I know exactly what I’m going to make for our pet clientele. I scored a stack of vintage fabrics at a flea market this past summer, and I’m thinking a line of literary-inspired get-ups—Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Darcy, Scarlett O’Hara, Laura Ingalls… Our customers will love that. If they can be persuaded to spread the word, too, maybe the end-of-month bills downstairs will seem less nefarious.

I finish my food in a rush and get up to put my mug away, but as I do, my foot catches on something soft that sends me stumbling ungracefully for the remaining steps to the counter. Dregs of coffee end up across my chest in a Rorschach pattern that looks like a smiling T. rex. I shake dark droplets off my hand as I straighten. “Come on, Boris. Not again.”

The wolfhound lifts his head and looks in my general direction. I’ll never understand how it’s possible for an aging, blind behemoth to move around that quietly.

“Aw, he can’t help it.” Harvey pats his leg to get Boris to move. The two of them snuggle close for a moment before Boris sinks onto the floor again.

Technically, Boris, Cholula, and Cap are still available for adoption, but when my grandma died, and the shelter part of the business along with her, Harvey stopped trying to find them new homes. “Who’d want them more than me?” he said once when I asked him about it. And it’s true—I can’t picture the store without them.

I rinse off my mug and my hands and then grab Harvey’s mug, too. “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

He nods toward the corner that harbors his alcove bed and a robust closet. Then he looks at his watch and stretches. “Today’s going to be a good day,” he says, like he always does. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“If you say so, Pop.” I go to find a new top and holler to him, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

His footsteps are already receding, so I take to rummaging through his clothes. The closet smells like soap and cedar with a faint old-person undertone. Familiar and safe. In the back, there’s a bag of my grandma’s things, and in it, I find a soft denim shirt that must be decades old but also, somehow, once again fashionable. I pull my stained top off, and then out of habit, I glance out the window. I’m too high up for anyone to be able to see me, but I duck down regardless at the sight of activity across the street. No Tuesday morning peep show here. What are they doing over there anyway? Did someone finally lease the empty space?

Cholula’s beady eyes watch me from the doorway, her tongue flopping limply out the side of her mouth. She really is the ugliest little cutie pie. I dig in my waistband for lingering pieces of kibble, and she comes scampering closer.

“Here you go.” I hold my hand low enough for her to find the straggling goodie that had been stuck near my belly button and then stand to redo the messy bun on top of my head.

“Who cares what we look like, am I right?”

Cholula sits, anticipating another snack, but this time I’ve got nothing.

“Come on, Cho.” I scoop her up and head down to the store.

“Do you know what they’re doing over there?” I ask Harvey after setting Cholula down. I nod toward the street.

“Huh?” He blinks at me.

There’s an envelope stamped FINAL NOTICE in his hand that makes my stomach tighten. I thought I had tucked the late notices at the bottom of the pile when I brought in the mail, but clearly that wasn’t enough. What makes the situation even worse is that I moved back out here to Batavia three years ago to help him with the store, and all signs so far point to failure. Online retail chains obviously make it hard for small mom-and-pop shops like ours to stand out, but still. We’re well established, so I don’t know what we’re doing wrong.

“Across the street?” I point. “Looks like someone’s moving in.”

Harvey walks to the front and squints out the window. “I think you might be right.” A grin spreads across his lips. “Exactly what we need. Another store means more foot traffic, more commerce. New customers!” He slaps his thigh, which immediately sets the two smaller dogs running toward him. Boris only lifts his head from the ray of sunlight where he’s currently lounging.

“Fingers crossed.”

“That reminds me. End of month.” Harvey opens the till and pulls out an envelope. “Your paycheck.”

It’s tempting. My piggybank has seen as little action as I have this past year, but I just can’t. “I think you already paid me.” I look away and pretend to focus on Cap waddling toward me like a bowlegged cowboy. When I glance up again, Harvey has something soft in his eyes.

“You found Martha’s shirt,” he says, resting his hand on the counter.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, it suits you.” He sighs and looks down at the envelope. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” He opens the till, extracts a few bills, and presses them into my palm. “You need some for rent at the very least. Normally, I’d insist you take what’s owed, but since I had to get the car fixed last month, I put off the phone company, and it can’t wait any longer or they’ll cut the line and the internet.”

“Pop, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I put on my most reassuring smile, pocketing the money. “We’re going to have a great fall. I’ll start making more clothes tonight, so we’ll have some ready by this weekend. How’s that?”

“Yes, excellent, excellent.”

Harvey is a young eighty-four. He and my grandma tried to retire twenty years ago, but that lasted only about as long as one of Cholula’s peanut butter treats when she’s hungry. Which is always. My grandpa is what the twinkly eyed ladies at the senior rec center call spry, but he shouldn’t still be working at his age. Unfortunately, he won’t even entertain the idea of slowing down. “Even if I didn’t have the dogs to care for, I refuse to be a charity case,” he always says. If only I could find a way to make us profitable enough that he could get some real help in here. Then I might…

No. I shake my head. Daydreaming doesn’t put food on the table, and this isn’t the worst place to be. There are a lot of memories here. The maple shelves have darkened with age, but this store mostly looks like it always did. I used to crawl into one of the big crates in the corner with a book when I was little. I found my first zit in the latticed mirror behind the cat toys. And I’ve stacked hundreds if not thousands of cans of food into humble pyramids on the tartan-covered display tables. Grandma looks down at me from a framed photo behind the counter. She’s grinning wide, holding up a blue first place rosette ribbon next to a lanky dalmatian mix in a Santa hat. It was taken when I was around twelve years old at the annual Winter Fest’s Amateur Dog Show. Patch was the only rescue ever to take her all the way. If I remember correctly, he found his forever home shortly after. That didn’t stop Grandma from participating year after year, though, just for “a bit of holiday frivolity.”

“Put that check away, Pop,” I say. “Time to open.”

“Fine.” He rubs his hands together. “I’m ready, are you ready?” As if we have a long line of customers outside in a frenzy over two-for-one bully sticks.

I chuckle. “I’ll set out the A-frame. Then I’ll take the dogs for a walk.”

He waves me off and starts arranging the bandanna display next to the register.

The late September air is still warm, the sun on its way to turn this into another beautiful day, but in the park down the street the tips of the trees are turning, slowly but surely. I don’t mind—fall is my favorite season. Sweaters and warm drinks all the way. I make sure our sale sign reflects our current specials and say hi to a few morning walkers. Then I take a deep breath and turn my face to the blue sky. Whatever Harvey needs me to do, I’ll do. So what if the pet store isn’t my dream?

I’m about to set off when the squeak of the scissor lift across the street stops me in my tracks. It’s coming down, revealing the name of our brand-new neighbor. I shade my eyes as the shiny letters come into view.

Canine King

I blink and read it again. And again.

“Well, fuck me,” I mutter as the implication sinks in.

We’ve got competition.

Because it’s a Tuesday and school is in session, the park and Riverwalk aren’t crowded. There are a few other dog walkers out, a couple of moms with rambunctious toddlers, and a group of teens who surely should be in a classroom right now, but that’s it. The benches overlooking the water where I like to sit are occupied by an older couple and a guy with a pretty Australian shepherd, so my posse and I loop back at a slow pace. The sun warms my shoulders and lights up the leaves above us in a spectacular way, and I’m deep in thought over this morning’s complication when we pass the playground, not paying attention. One second is all it takes, and Cholula has escaped.

A moment later, a piercing shriek carries through the air. “My ice cream! My ice cream! The monster took it!”

Cholula comes shooting out from beneath the play structure with a waffle cone the size of her head lodged in her jaws. She’s pursued by one of the little boys, but his mom grabs his arm before he can take off after her.

Crap. “Cholula! Bad dog!” With Boris’s leash in one hand and Cap’s in the other, I stumble across the lawn after Cho, and suddenly there’s a fourth dog in the mix. Where the heck did it come from?

“Mom, is it a gremlin?” the kid cries behind me.

I didn’t know kids still knew what gremlins were, but I suppose I can’t fault anyone for mistaking Cholula for one. I should have been paying better attention, but that Canine King sign has thrown off my whole morning. Besides, why are kids eating ice cream at the park at nine thirty? Isn’t that poor parenting? Cho did the kid a favor.

“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder to the mom, who’s trying to console her deprived little one.

Cholula and the other dog are chasing each other back and forth, having the time of their lives while I make my way toward the water. Boris is our weakest link, and no matter how I coax, we make slow progress.

“Tilly, here!”

The guy I saw on the bench earlier, presumably the owner of the Aussie playing tag with Cho, is closer to the dogs, and even in my stressed-out state, my dormant lady parts give a standing ovation at the way his gray fitted button-down hugs his arms. He must be new to the area.

“It that thing yours?” he calls to me in a deep baritone. His words have edges that knock me about. No doubt there’s a glower behind those mirrored Ray-Bans.

Cholula stops for a moment and swings her head in his direction as if she understands the implication perfectly, but then the Aussie circles her and the two are off again. Cholula’s leash trails her on the ground like a happy snake.

“Oh, come on,” hot, snide guy says with exasperation. “Tilly, here!”

I finally reach their part of the park. “Seems like she’s got better things to do.” I smile. “Don’t worry, Cholula only has another few minutes in her. They’ll be back.”

“You know, you really should keep your dogs in check.” His shapely mouth puckers as he lets out a loud whistle.

“Excuse me?”

He gestures impatiently toward the frolicking dogs. “This is totally out of character for Tilly.”

Ah, so he’s one of those people. The deflecting kind. I purse my lips. “Maybe if you’d kept her on a leash…”

“Like I said, she always stays by me.”

“Clearly not always.”

This guy is getting under my skin. The air around him practically vibrates with impatience, and what is that scent stinging my nostrils? Is that…? Yep, I know Au de Snob when I smell it. From the cut of his clothes to the Patek on his wrist, I’d bet a million bucks he and his precious Tilly usually run in different circles. So what the heck is he doing here?

I sneak another sideways glance at hair the rich summery hue of ripe wheat. The ugly contents of his soul certainly got wrapped in shiny paper.

Cap tugs on his leash, wanting to join the play, but I keep it in a firm grasp. Boris has melted into his usual pile on the ground. Time to end this. “Cho-lu-la!” I try again. “Treat!”

“That’s great—reward bad behavior,” the guy mutters under his breath.

I spin toward him, my hands on my hips. “Do you want the dogs to come back or not?”

His face briefly goes blank as if he wasn’t expecting the bite in my voice, and he takes a step back, palms forward. Unfortunately, that’s where Boris is, and before I have time to yell Timber, the guy’s majestic arms flail like the rotor blades of a runaway chopper, and he goes down.

He lets out an unintelligible shout on his way to the ground, and that, finally, is what gets the dogs’ attention. Cholula and Tilly come bounding back, no doubt thinking they’ve got a new playmate, and cover him with kisses on the ground.

“No, come on.” He puts his arms up for protection. “Tilly!”

His pathetic attempts at fending them off makes a laugh bubble up my chest. Serves him right. I hope those are expensive jeans.

“A little help,” he pleads, stretching a hand my direction.

“I think you’ve got this.” I smirk.

“Please.”

I roll my eyes but give in. “Fine.” I manage to put a foot on Cholula’s leash. Then I lean forward to give him a hand while Cho jumps at my leg, the happiest I’ve ever seen the tiny beast.

The guy’s hand is large and warm, his fingers closing tightly around mine as I pull him up, but he’s only halfway off the ground when Cap sees his chance to get in on the action and jumps between us. I have no time to further ponder the sensation of actual male skin-to-skin contact before Tilly follows Cap, and Cholula circles behind us, pulling my legs from under me. It’s a people and dog pile-up, and instead of helping the guy up, I end up using him as a cushion for my fall. Dogs bark, sunglasses go flying, and hands find purchase in unknown places.

“Oof,” he grunts as we hit the ground, me on top of his (very solid) chest.

If this was one of my roommate-slash–best friend Micki’s beloved Hallmark rom-coms, now would be when he’d look up at me, a twinkle in his sparkling eyes. My long, dark hair, loose from its bun, would be framing our faces. He’d reach up to place a hand against my cheek. We’d kiss—gently at first and then with more intent.

“Do you mind?” he says instead, jolting me back to the present moment.

There’s no string quartet playing, and my hair is not so much cascading gracefully around us as it is smothering him. He wipes at his face to get my strands out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” I grunt, trying to heave myself off him. “So sorry.”

When we’re finally free of each other, and all the dogs are accounted for, I brush off the sleeve of my grandma’s shirt and peer up at him, expecting a stranger. Instead, I find a vaguely familiar face angled toward me. Somewhere in my distant memory, students cheer from packed bleachers as our team obliterates the competition thanks to the guy before me.

“Leo?”

He squints.

“You are Leo Salinger, right? Batavia High School?”

“Yeah?” He says it like he doesn’t understand why I’m asking. Tilly pulls at her leash, but he tightens his grip on it and puts his sunglasses back on.

“You were a year ahead of me. I’m Cora Lewis. Go Bulldogs?” I try.

No reaction. So much for the old school spirit. I would have thought the guy who had been voted homecoming king three years in a row by his peers would have easy access to a smile and a friendly word, but I suppose a lot can happen in twelve years.

I swallow the sting and clear my throat. “Um, there’s an off-leash dog park if you take Main Street west past Randall. They’ve actually gotten pretty strict about leashing your dogs here in town the past few years. I assume you’ve been elsewhere?”

He looks away and ignores my question. “Like I said before, it wouldn’t have been an issue if that thing hadn’t gotten Tilly riled up.”

Heat flushes through me, building pressure. On second thought, I didn’t really know him in high school. Maybe he was always like this—kind of an asshole. Where does he get off? “This thing has a name. It’s Cholula. And she wasn’t anywhere near you when Tilly took off after her. They clearly like each other. They’re dogs.” Sure, I should have had a better grip on Cho’s leash, but I have two other dogs, too, and ice cream is her catnip.

“Fine.” He cuts his gaze between me and Cholula one more time. “What’s wrong with her, anyway?”

“What’s wrong?” I gape at him. I’ve had just about enough of this. “Not everyone is as perfect as you and yours, I suppose. Let’s leave it at that and pretend this never happened. Have a fantastic day.” With that, I turn on my heel and march back toward the store.

I’m sure my face still looks like a storm cloud as I escort my band of misfits through the door because Harvey takes only one look at me before he puts down the bag of kibble he’s stacking and comes to relieve me.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” he says, astute observer that he is. “What happened?” He squats to unleash the dogs, who set off upstairs to their water bowls and beds.

I lean against the counter and relay the incident in as few words as I can, leaving out that I recognized Leo. “He was such a jerk about it,” I say to wrap things up. “Sweet dog, though.” I rifle through my purse for some gum to calm myself with.

Harvey squints out the window. “An Aussie you say? And the young man, what did he look like?”

A freaking Calvin Klein ad. “I don’t know. Tall, blond, chin dimple.”

“Good looking you’d say?”

I frown at him. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Like that?” He points out the window, and there across the street are Tilly and Leo looking up at the Canine King sign. He says something to the workers before pulling out a key and letting himself into the store.

You have got to be kidding me.

Living History Illinois Flockify DM, Wednesday 07:33 PM

AlCaponesGhost25: Moderator here. Your post got flagged. If you are a registered company, you may not promote it on the server.

SingerQueen: Not a company and it’s been allowed in the past. New here?

AlCaponesGhost25: Me or the rules? As long as you are not a company, I’ll allow it.

SingerQueen: So magnanimous…

AlCaponesGhost25: Lol. And yes, I’m new here.

Two days after my run-in with Leo in the park, the store across the street is unrecognizable. Like all Canine Kings, the storefront framework has been painted black with the name contrasted in gold lettering to make sure no one misses the fact that this is an exclusive boutique even though it is a chain. And to think I used to enjoy visiting the downtown Chicago location when I lived there.

I shoot icy glares through the window where I stand half covered by the curtain, nursing a cup of coffee. From up here, I can see most of Leo’s store—the new shelves and display tables, a fridge undoubtedly filled with fresh, organic dog food, and a large chalkboard leaning against the counter. Everything looks neat and organized, if not completely done yet. As I’m watching, Leo emerges from the back, Tilly at his feet. He’s there all the time it seems—probably because they’ve moved into the apartment above the store. He studies something in his hands before placing a HELP WANTED sign in the window.

“Yeah, I bet you need help,” I mutter.

As if he hears me, he looks up, skimming our facade before finding the window where I’m standing.

I take a quick step back and hold my breath.

When I peek a minute later, he’s gone.

I’ve just put my mug in the sink when the bell at the front door downstairs jingles, announcing our first customer of the day. I peer through the railing to make sure Harvey’s got it covered, and… it’s him.

Leo looks around Happy Paws, and for a moment, I see it the way he might. A mishmash of cardboard cut-out animals in the window display, two old birdcages my grandma found at a flea market, stuffed dogs in cowboy costumes… I inhale the rich, musty smell of dry pet food as the radio plays faintly in the background. To me, it’s homey, but Leo looks like all his senses have been assaulted by a dressed-up monkey banging cymbals together. He’s above this, hi. . .