Mrs. Lewis handed me a strange contraption with a jaw that opened and closed on one end.

I lifted an eyebrow. "What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked her. To be honest, I didn't really want to know the answer to my question, but I had a bad feeling I was going to find out whether I wanted to or not.

She raised an eyebrow back at me. "It's a pooper scooper, Quinn," she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. I gaped at her, and I was fairly positive that I'd never heard two more terrifying words. She didn't actually expect me to clean up dog crap, did she?

Apparently, she did. "You're going to clean out the kennels today," she explained. "The food bowls, toys, and blankets have already been taken out to be cleaned. Your job is to remove the solid waste and sweep out all the hair. After that you'll rinse the cage with hot water and disinfectant, before scrubbing down the walls and floors..."

Mrs. Lewis continued to detail the cleaning process, and the more instructions she gave me, the more nauseous I felt. This had to be a sick joke, because I, Quinn Amberly Carmen, did not pick up dog poop. Or scrub floors for that matter. My family paid people to do those sorts of things. How could anyone trust me to adequately clean something when I didn't even do my own laundry?

This was all my dad's fault. He'd been in a rage ever since the cops brought me home from Twin Peak, but I didn't get what the big deal was. Liam's father made sure the country club didn't press charges, and I'd gotten in way worse trouble before. But Dad kept ranting about how this was "the last straw" and that I needed to "grow up". Which was utter crap, because I was grown up—in two months I'd turn eighteen and officially be an adult.

It wasn't like we hurt anyone by taking the golf carts out for a joyride, and yet my dad was acting like I committed first-degree murder. At first, I thought he'd ground me like usual and be done with it. Maybe since he was extra mad, he'd take away my phone. Instead, he came up with the cruelest, most torturous form of punishment imaginable.

I'd known something was up the moment my parents called me down to the sitting room for a "serious talk". Our family didn't do those. Don't get me wrong, my mom and dad weren't the stereotypical, absentee rich parents who threw money at their kids to keep them occupied. Carla and Donald Carmen had what I liked to call a "carefree" style of parenting. As long as I kept my grades up and didn't skip school, I was pretty much free to do whatever I pleased. But no longer.

My parents gave me two options:

Terrible Option #1: Spend my final year of high school at a boarding school in New York, an entire state away from my friends and super hot, almost boyfriend

Terrible Option #2: Stay home and attend St. Mary's Prep as per usual, but volunteer all my free time at local organization

Although excruciating, the choice was obvious—there was no way I was going to leave Massachusetts. After my unusually harsh sentencing, I spent an entire afternoon researching different non-profits and charities in the area, trying to figure out what place would require the least amount of work. The soup kitchen and highway cleanup project were quickly out, and I momentarily considered Friends with Greenwood, a program at a nearby nursing home where volunteers spent time visiting with residents to keep them company.

But then I found Paws Crossed, an animal shelter dedicated to rescuing dogs. Their website was plastered with pictures of adorable puppies, and by golden retriever number three, I was sold. If my parents were going to force me to work, at least I could do something fun like play with dogs all day. If only I knew then what I was getting myself into...

Mrs. Lewis, the lady who ran the shelter, put me to work the moment I showed up and told her I wanted to volunteer. I spent my first day organizing her filing cabinet, and the next three painting the weather worn fence that surrounded the outdoor play area. I had yet to hold a puppy, and now she wanted me to clean the kennels. By myself. I almost cried at the injustice of it all. While my friends got a slap on the wrist and were enjoying the last few weeks of summer, I was stuck in this hellhole with a pooper-scooper in hand.

The job took almost five hours, and by the time I'd finished, my bangs were plastered to my forehead with sweat. To make matters worse, both my feet were throbbing and I'd stepped in more than one pile of poo. A long string of curses erupted from my mouth the first time it happened, because the boots I was wearing were my favorite Jimmy Choo's. At least, they used to be my favorite.

There was no way I would be able to endure an entire year of working here. Maybe I could convince my parents to let me switch to the Friends with Greenwood program. I'd have to spend my time with a bunch of wrinkly old people, but that sounded a million times better than daily pooper-scooper duty. Better yet, there was always the chance that my dad would ease up in a few weeks after he thought I learned my lesson, and I clung to the hope of that possibility.

My phone buzzed. After wiping my hands on the back of my jeans, I pulled it out to check my messages. There was a text from Olivia. She'd sent me a picture of the gang at the beach—I nearly died at the sight of Kabel in his swim trunks—with a caption underneath: we miss u! Sighing, I slipped my cell back into my pocket. I couldn't bring myself to respond, because if I thought about all the fun my friends were having without me a second longer, I really would start to cry.

Now that I was done with the kennels, hopefully Mrs. Lewis would let me go home for the day. I gathered up all my supplies—the scooper, broom, scrub brush, bucket, hose, and cleaning solution—and made my way down the hall toward the janitor's closet. I should have taken more than one trip, because it was too much for me to carry. When my grasp on the bucket started slipping, I tried to adjust my grip, but then I stepped on a still-slick section of the floor and my feet flew out from under me.

I fell hard on my butt. "Oww," I groaned and winced in pain.

A soft chuckle drifted down the hall, making my head snap up. A guy around my age was leaning against one of the kennels, a hand pressed to his mouth as he tried to contain his laughter. He had brown, sun-bleached hair that curled up around his ears and desperately needed a cut. His eyes were toffee colored.

"You think this is funny?" I asked him, my voice sharp.

"No, Miss. I don't," he responded in a soft Southern drawl. The look on my face must have screamed bullshit, because his lips quirked up and he added, "Well, maybe a little."

"Glad I could provide some entertainment for you," I snapped as my cheeks turned pink.

His smirk quickly dissolved and he rushed over to me. "I'm sorry for laughing, Miss. That was rude of me. Let me help you."

I scoffed. I was so not in the mood for whatever this nice guy, gentleman act was. "Thanks, but no thanks." Ignoring his outstretched hand, I pushed myself to my feet and brushed the dirt off my pants. Then I started picking up all the supplies I'd dropped, pretending the whole time that Mr. Southern Charm wasn't still standing there watching me.

"Miss, would you like a hand?" he asked, grabbing the broom off the floor.

I straightened up and glared at him. "First of all, I don't need your help. And second, stop calling me Miss. It's not fricking my name," I exclaimed. I knew I was being rude, but something about this guy was making me irritable. Probably the slow, easy smile on his face that made me feel like I was being mocked.

"How about you tell me your name," he said. "Then I won't have to call you Miss anymore."

His smile grew into a full-faced grin, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I shoved the bucket and pooper-scooper into his hands. "Not going to happen," I exclaimed, and then I stomped away, leaving him to clean up my mess.