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)
“Do it,” I urge, nodding toward him. “I have faith in you.”
He slides over to me on his belly and drags his tongue down my face. I squeeze my eyes closed, like that’s enough to fend off the full tongue treatment. “Seriously. You’re my only hope. Do it and let me know.”
He swipes my other cheek.
I open my eyes, then lift my right arm, grunting. Or is that a whimper? Maybe it’s both. “Ungh. Ungh.” I slump back down, my shoulder smacking the wood. “I can’t. Go on without me.”
Simon bolts to attention, clambering onto my chest. “Seriously. Save yourself,” I tell him, then flail my arms around. “Your food is in the pantry. I’ll let Mabel and Trevyn know.”
The squawking grows louder. Simon barks, then licks more furiously. I fling a hand over my eyes. “I can’t. I’m too sad.”
It’s been thirty-six hours since I was dumped. And dumped rudely, with a casual you can still do your podcast send-off.
“I knew I hated him for a reason,” I mutter, but inside I’m aching. I didn’t even get a chance to argue with Ford about the split. To fight for him, and for us. He was so…certain in his stupid nobility.
I death-moan again. That earns me more licks.
“I don’t want to get up,” I whimper. The thought of answering Mabel’s messages is too much. The prospect of seeing Ford’s mom in a couple days for a wrap-up video call—her words—is horrifying. Meeting with a new client the day after that is unthinkable.
The slamming of a car door from the sidewalk catches Simon’s attention, and he shoots off me, scurrying on determined little Doxie legs to the front door, barking his head off.
“Shit,” I mutter, then push up. What if it’s Ford, and he’s coming up the steps because he forgot…I don’t know…a lucky tie? Did he leave something here? I already gave away the mug I let him use for coffee—the one his strong hands wrapped around the other morning. Does he want the necklace back? The rat bastard! I’m going to sell that necklace so hard. Even if I only get five bucks for it, I’ll use that five bucks, buy a kale smoothie, and pour it on his porch.
Ugh.
That sounds like too much effort. I try again to reach for the coffee, this time forcing myself to sit up.
But Simon’s still barking.
I swear, if Ford comes to the door while I’m in a state of feeling sorry for myself, I will pee on a plant and leave it on his porch.
I down the rest of the lukewarm swill and crawl to the front of the house. When I reach the Captain of Barking, I peer out the front window like a Peeping Tom and then duck down, all the hair on my arms standing on end.
It’s Ford, tapping on his phone, standing next to a white Prius, looking all put together in khakis and a polo that hugs his strong arms. I hate them too.
But whose car is that? Brittany’s? Someone else’s?
The car pulls away, and he walks to his house, his lips in a straight line and his jaw set hard.
Oh. Did he just take a Lyft somewhere? To the doctor? That should have been me taking him—the stubborn, stoic jerk. I swipe at my eyes, my heart hurting as I look at the man I was falling in love with as he walks up the steps, wincing once, but not even looking my way. Of course. I’m second best. To hockey.
But when he reaches the top step, his gaze drifts left…and is he checking out my porch? Probably trying to avoid me. His peripheral vision surely isn’t good enough to see inside the window while I stare furtively at him.
I duck down when I hear the squawk again.
Well, I’m already halfway up. I drag myself to my feet, grab my opera glasses from the hallway table, and trudge to the mudroom, then poke my head out of the catio. Cleo’s lounging on her corner shelf, but she deigns to glance my way, shooting me a look that says I’m fashion roadkill. Like I didn't already know that.
I scan for the heron, and my shoulders sag. “Are you kidding me?”
He was here, and now he’s flying away.
Fitting.
“No. Just no. You do not look good in a bathrobe.”
That’s Trevyn’s declaration as he shuts the door behind him and Mabel the next day.
“Well, you’re not supposed to be here,” I say defiantly, as I tie the sash of my robe tighter. At least I changed out of yesterday’s robe.
He struts in with his Labrador mix, Barbara-dor, who’s looking pretty sassy with a new pink rhinestone collar. Simon wraps himself around her legs since they’ve been friends for a while.
“Can I let them out in the backyard?” Trevyn asks.
“Now you’re asking my permission for something? You showed up unannounced.”