Hopeless Romantic (When in Rome #2) - Marina Adair Page 0,1

dedicated to training emotional support companions for people with emotional or neurological disabilities.

Gregory was fun and guaranteed to keep things entertaining, should Bruce choose to forget his sense of humor at home again. Or Levi choose to be nice to her. The love/hate line always got a bit fuzzy when he was nice.

There wasn’t much chance of nice happening tonight, though, because while fun, Gregory was also a honey-colored silkie chicken nearing the end of his ESA training.

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on, Beck, we’ve gone through this. No pets allowed in my bar.”

“He isn’t a pet. He’s an emotional support companion and my latest trainee. He also happens to be from a long line of silkie chickens who have provided support for humans with PTSD, autism, social anxiety, and seizures. Isn’t that right, Gregory?”

“Cluuuck cluckcluckcluck.” Gregory’s little beak peeked over the lip of the countertop when he squawked a very loud affirmative.

“Gregory?”

“Gregory Pecker,” she clarified, and the rooster in question flapped his wings to get on the bar. Beckett caught him in mid-flight and set him back on the stool with a stern wag of her finger.

His response was to peck Beckett’s nail—hard.

“Hey, no biting.”

“Pa-cock,” Gregory sassed.

“This is why I need to bring him out in public more,” she said to Levi. “He tends to misbehave in front of a crowd. It’s the whole mine-is-bigger-than-yours BS—he needs to show the other guys just how impressive his wingspan is. Hens are so much easier to train.”

Levi’s lips twitched, but he kept his not-on-my-watch expression firmly in place. “You got papers for Pecker and his wingspan?”

“He prefers Mr. Pecker or Gregory, and he has a vest.” Beckett did her best game-show-girl impression to showcase the adorable SERVICE COCK vest that Mable, one of Beckett’s most loyal customers, had knitted as a Christmas gift.

The vest was red, which matched Gregory’s wattle and really highlighted his beautiful white feathers, and had holes big enough to accommodate his wings.

“So is that a no on the papers?” Resting his forearms on the bar, Levi leaned in as if stressing the seriousness of Gregory’s working animal status. “Then, I’m sorry, but unless Pecker is a licensed service animal, he’s against health code, so he can shake his tail feathers in some other guy’s establishment.”

“While I understand your rules, surely you can make an exception?”

“Nope.”

“But we’re celebrating. Tonight we completed hug training. He even got a little diploma, which means next week he gets to spend bonding time with his fur-ever companion.”

“Hug training?” he challenged. “That’s as bad as the dog-ate-my-homework excuse.”

“Watch.” Beckett patted her chest, and Gregory moved into action. He hopped on the bar and waddled to Beckett, his head rising like a periscope. She sent a whoopsie grimace Levi’s way, then leaned forward and patted her chest twice. Gregory walked to the end of the countertop as Beckett moved in close for a hug. The moment their chests touched, Gregory tilted his head and, resting it on her shoulder, delivered one of the sweetest hugs yet.

“See how he’s pressing against my chest? The gentle pressure and soft cooing is proven to lower anxiety.”

“Impressive. But he still has to go.”

“There’s something else.” She looked around as if about to impart her deepest, darkest secret. “He’s training to be a companion for a vet with PTSD.” Which was pure fabrication. “It’s quite a sad but heroic story.”

“Not my problem.” He pointed to the sign: NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE, with a hand-scrawled AND NO PETS in Sharpie at the bottom that had been added when Beckett brought in her client’s llama, Larry, for lunch.

In addition to training emotional support animals, a hobby that had begun when her younger brother was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder and they couldn’t afford a companion, Beckett was also a professional odd jobber.

Pet sitting and picking up people’s dry cleaning wasn’t exactly living the dream, but when her family moved to Rome nine years ago, there weren’t a lot of career opportunities where specializing in “getting shit done” was the only qualification necessary. Beckett worked hard to find jobs flexible enough to accommodate her unique family situation, but over time her unpredictable schedule tried the patience of even the most understanding bosses. Which was how she found herself the favorite former-employee of nearly every mom-and-pop business in town.

So odd jobs became her livelihood. She could set her own hours, choose her tasks and, most importantly, choose compatible clients. Being a glorified errand girl wasn’t glamorous but what