Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I nod at her ceramic cup. “At least you have coffee.”
“It’s lukewarm, but hey, it still works.”
“Caffeine doesn’t care about temperature,” I agree.
Then I realize—she doesn’t have a lid. What kind of maniac walks around San Francisco without a lid on their coffee cup?
But hey, some people like to take risks. Is talking to her a little longer a risk I want to take right now? I’m considering the question when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something I can’t unsee.
Her tiny dog is no longer licking Zamboni’s face.
He’s mounting her. Enthusiastically. He’s humping her like a deranged stuffed animal let loose in a strip club.
No. Just no. I point, stiff-armed, at the animal. “What the hell?”
The woman winces. “He’s frisky today.”
“No kidding,” I say sharply.
She laughs awkwardly, and I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or cheering him on. Her beet-red cheeks say, Oh no! But the chuckling says, Go get ’em!
“Just make him stop,” I say stiffly. “That’s gross.”
“Simon, no,” the woman calls. “Simon, that’s enough. Simon, stop right now, you naughty little devil.”
Her scolding would work better if she weren’t laughing. The cute voice calling him a naughty little devil is not doing the trick. Nothing is. The little horndog doesn’t stop. He grips my girl’s hips with his tiny paws and just keeps pumping.
It’s not even remotely funny. Balancing my kale smoothie, I reach for the dog at the same time the redhead does—
Bam.
Her elbow knocks into my cup. It shoots up a few feet, then plummets. I snatch it before it splatters onto the sidewalk.
Her coffee?
Not so lucky. Nor is sweet Zamboni.
The coffee spills. All over my dog.
“Seriously?” What the fuck has this sexy chaos demon done to my day?
“It’s not hot! I swear. Also, that stopped him so…yay?” She scoops up her dog, then tries to clean my dog with the end of her robe.
Why? Just why? I should stop her, but she’s mopping Zamboni’s back like the fate of the world depends on getting her clean. “I’m sorry!”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, grabbing her coffee mug from the sidewalk. The handle’s nicked, but otherwise it’s fine. “Now she’ll need a bath. And probably therapy.”
“Don’t we all?” The woman flashes a grin that is way too confident for someone who just spilled coffee on a stranger’s dog. “I got some off her, though, so double yay.”
“Thanks.” I hand her the mug and assess my dog. Surprise—my girl is still covered in her drink. I’ll have to take care of her myself. That’s usually the only way to get things done anyway.
“But nice reflexes,” the redhead adds in an upbeat tone. “Is that a smoothie in there?”
Is she going to ask me to make her one? “Kale smoothie,” I mutter.
“Good thing that didn’t spill then. Shame about my coffee, but I suppose there was nothing to be done.”
“Except use a cup with a lid?” I ask, bewildered. How can one person be both sexy and disastrous at the same time?
She shrugs, unbothered. “Why would I dirty another dish?”
“That logic doesn’t even make sense.”
“It’s more environmental this way. If I poured it into a to-go cup, that would mean more water, and so on,” she argues, adjusting the Dachshund mix in her arms.
Wait. I mean…the humping hound. Because the dog is still going, thrusting his little doggy hips as he dangles from her hands.
I stare at him. Then at her. Then back at him. “He’s still humping?” Because…holy shit. Her mutt is out of control.
She snaps her gaze to the pup, chiding him with, “Simon, you’re in air jail.” She shifts her focus back to me, lifting her chin. “It’s just excess energy. It’s something some dogs do when they’re excited…or overstimulated.”
I arch a brow at the last word. “Overstimulated?”
“It doesn’t mean that. It’s just a thing some dogs do.”
“They hump the air?” Where does she come up with this stuff?
She jerks back, as if she’s offended. “Are you actually critiquing his style?”
“His style of dogging it while he’s in air jail?”
She clutches the pup closer as he gives a final thrust, like a wind-up toy winding down. “He’s just…high energy,” she says defensively.
“He’s just…inappropriate,” I toss back.
She rolls her eyes. “Simon, let’s go.”
In a huff, she spins around, heading down my block.
Don’t want to be anywhere near her unchecked energy, so I turn the other way. My jaw tightens as I walk. So much for my neat and orderly day.
3
FRIDAY NIGHT MONKEY
SKYLAR
I’m still fuming an hour later as I flip through a rack of vintage handbags. “Can you believe the gall of that guy, critiquing my dog’s humping style?”
The thrift store smells like old books and good deals, while some kind of indie pop plays faintly overhead. Trevyn holds up a sequined silver clutch against his glowy ebony complexion, raising a What do we think? eyebrow. Mabel inspects a full set of Le Creuset baking dishes, which are, for some reason, displayed next to the bags.