Page 2 of Hopeless Romantic
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 SERVICECOCKvest 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 licensedserviceanimal, 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 awhoopsiegrimace 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 PETSin 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 she did was meaningful. Making people’s crazy lives a bit more manageable mattered. But there were days she felt like nothing more than a pizza delivery driver.
Today happened to be one of those days. So she’d braved the end-of-winter temperatures to come to the Crow’s Nest, looking for a cold beer and a fun night out, and she wasn’t about to be cock-blocked by a bartender with rooster envy.
“To be clear,” Beckett said, loud enough for the bar to hear, “are you anti–people with special needs, or anti–war heroes? I just need to clarify your stance, so I know whether or not to support yourestablishment.”
Levi hitched a brow. “My dad was a vet, my grandfather was a vet, and you know damn well the only thing I object to is your menagerie of bizarre pets shitting in my bar.”
“So, Gregory is being persecuted because he wasn’t born with four legs and a tail, or what society deems as more service-companion-like traits?”
“Your service dogs have never shit in my bar,” he said coolly. “Your other animals don’t have the best track record.”
“That only happened once, and it was because one of your customers fed Larry buffalo wings. Everyone knows llamas are vegans.”
“Once was enough.” He extended a hand, palm up. A big, masculine hand that looked strong and capable. “Show me papers or find another place to haunt.”
“You’re a species elitist.” She snapped her fingers, having anahamoment. “Unless. . . . Are you one of those guys who’s intimidated by a prettier cock?”
“No.”
“You sure? Because Gregory isn’t your everyday, ordinary cock. He’s got more up here”—she tapped a finger to her temple—“than most males. In fact, he’s living proof that a cock can be house-trained. I know, shocking.”
His lips curved into a reluctant grin. And, man, when he grinned, that love/hate line went from fuzzy to forgotten. “Beck, everyone knows a pecker can be trained. Now, a cock on the other hand?” He shrugged. “If you were hoping to see one of those in action, you could have just asked for my number.”
Beckett squirmed, a little flustered by the sexual banter. Because while he was giving her one of his double-dimpled smiles, something in his eyes hinted that he wasn’t joking.
“Noted for next time,” she said, wishing she were wearing anything other than two-day-old jeans and helmet-hair from zipping back and forth across town on her Vespa.
Levi didn’t move an inch as his eyes tracked down to her mouth and lower, taking in everything he could before making the slow trip back up. And if her nipples hadn’t given him a high-five on the descent, then they sure as heck did on his second pass.
