Page 16 of Own the Eights
Jesus! Hell no, he didn’t.
What was wrong with him?
“Well, yeah, I guess I do have a messy bun,” she answered without quite as much spite.
He gestured toward the leash. “And by the way, I don’t own any pets, but I’m pretty sure those things work better when you actually attach them to your animal.”
“Such a Brice Casey,” she mumbled.
“Who the hell is this Brice guy?”
Jesus! Did he miss some hipster pop culture reference?
She shook her head, glanced at her dog, currently running circles around an old oak, and softened her expression. “It doesn’t matter. Can you just help me?”
When she wasn’t yelling or glaring at him, she was kind of…
STOP!
He gestured with his chin. “You go left. I’ll go right.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, bringing his attention to what almost looked like a really nice pair of tits hidden under that dreadful cardigan, and let out a sweet little sigh. “Okay! Thank you! I’m sorry for calling you unpleasant. I’m a little out of sorts today.”
She had lovely eyes. Not quite blue and not quite green, and they sparkled like gemstones.
He flicked his gaze to her shoes. He had to quash these thoughts. There was too damned much on the line. “Try not to twist your ankle running in those poor excuse for sandals.”
She frowned, probably about to take back her apology, when the dog caught sight of a rabbit and bolted.
“Oh no!” she cried, and he knew he had to act if he wanted to catch that dog and make it to CityBeat on time.
He wasn’t quite as fast as a dog in pursuit of a floppy-eared animal, but he was fast enough. With messy bun girl trailing behind him, calling out the dog’s stupid name, he swooped in behind the mutt and grabbed its collar, but lost his footing and skidded to the ground with the dog landing on top of him, panting wildly. The mongrel looked down at him and licked his face.
Oh, for fuck’s sake!
The last thing that dog probably licked was his balls.
This was so not a Marks Perfect Ten situation.
“He likes you,” messy bun girl cooed, coming to her knees and scratching between the dog’s ears.
“Do you mind?” he asked, gaze bouncing from the ground to the dog.
She pressed her hand to her chest again. “Sorry! Come on, Mr. Tuesday. Let’s let the man get up.”
She looked up at him, still on the ground, cradling her dog’s head in her hands. “Thank you, Mr.…”
Warmth spread through his chest as he watched her press a kiss to the top of the dog’s head, but he pushed the feeling aside. Nothing about her or her harebrained dog fit his life’s motto.
He sharpened his expression. “You can call me, Mr. Use-Your-Damn-Leash-Next-Time. You’re not the only person with things to do today.”
She scoffed as contempt replaced the kindness in her eyes. “If I weren’t a nice person, I’d call you a supreme asshat.”
He gave her his best shit-eating grin. “Well, this asshat is probably going to be late, thanks to you.”
“Such a Brice Casey,” she murmured, repeating that bizarre hipster reference again as he doubled his pace and set off toward the gym.
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