Page 3 of Christmas Craving
Amy:Ugh that’s the worst. What are you going to do now?
Lanie:Besides listening to your dog snore and fart? I’ll probably do some baking. I’m in the mood for cookies. Plus I found a good recipe for homemade dog biscuits I wanted to try.
Amy:Thanks again for helping with Arthur. There was no way I could have gotten him a boarding slot, not this close to Christmas. Plus I didn’t want him to think we’d adopted him and then abandoned him again.
Lanie:It’s all good, especially since I didn’t take any other jobs. Arthur and I are getting along fine, and I’m determined to teach him how to sit on command by the time you get back.
Amy:You’re such a good friend.
Lanie:I know, LOL. But enough about me, how is Grandma Allen?
After finishing my chat with my bestie, I opened my computer and worked on a job for one of my freelance clients. Since my regular job paid crap wages, in addition to periodic pet sitting I’d picked up some side gigs doing virtual assistant work for authors. It was brainless, but it gave me an additional income stream. It wasn’t like my social work salary was enough to pay the bills in a city as expensive as Seattle.
Things had been a little tight, especially since Amy moved out of our apartment. She’d prepaid three months’ rent before she left, but I’d been dragging my feet about finding another roommate. If I could just pick up a little more income, I could afford the apartment on my own. And if that didn’t work out, I’d just have to find a cheaper place to live when my lease was up.
I sighed. Cheaper would mean farther away from work than I already was.
Looking over at Arthur, who was sleeping on the couch in direct violation of John’s orders before he left, I wondered if I could pick up some other pet sitting clients. Things usually slowed down after the holidays, then picked up again around Spring Break. I sighed. Twenty-eight years old and I still was living paycheck to paycheck. I really needed to get my life together.
Several hours later I woke up on the couch, a giant dog head on my lap. A message was flashing on the TV, asking me if I wasstill watching, so apparently I’d been asleep for a while. Arthur was snoring like an old man with a deviated septum, groaning in protest when I moved him off my lap to go to the bathroom.
Deciding to try the homemade dog biscuit recipe I’d seen online, I turned on the oven, queued up some Christmas songs on my phone, figured out how to connect to John’s wireless speakers, and got to work mixing up the ingredients. Arthur woke up, wandering into the kitchen to see what I was doing.
As I worked, I sang along to the music, getting into it. I guess Arthur was getting into it to because as I sang along with Bruce Springsteen about Santa Clause coming to town, Arthur started to howl along with me. I laughed at his antics. He really was adorable.
Suddenly I heard someone pounding on the front door. This was a secure building, so it had to be one of the neighbors unless the doorman had sent up a delivery.
I headed to the entryway, Arthur right beside me. When I pulled open the door, I was shocked to see it was the woman from before, the one who’d lost her coffee. She’d changed into crisp white pants and a cashmere sweater that brought out the blue of her eyes. Even though it was nine o’clock on a Saturday night, she looked like she was on her way to a business meeting.
Arthur greeted her like a long lost friend, pushing past me to sniff the woman’s kitten heel shoes while his tail whipped back and forth excitedly. Her lip curled in distaste.
“Uh. Hi. Can I help you?” I asked, wondering if she lived in the building.
“Yes you can help me,” she said icily, her cold voice pitching above the music. “By not blaring that god-awful Christmas music while screeching along in what I can only guess is your attempt at singing.”
I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. The woman looked at me like I was nuts. Reaching into my pocket, I used my phone to mute the music.
“Not a fan of Christmas music?” I asked.
“Not a fan of Christmas anything,” she rejoined.
I gave her a look of mock horror. “That’s un-American. What kind of monster are you?”
She just stared at me, clearly not appreciating my attempted at humor, so I moved into small talk.
“We didn’t officially meet earlier,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Lanie.”
“Celia Robertson.”
Her response seemed automatic, as did the handshake. Except there was nothing routine about the way my skin buzzed when it touched hers. I could tell she felt it too, because she held ontomy hand a few seconds too long, staring down at it like she was trying to figure out what was happening. Or maybe she was noticing the peanut butter underneath my fingernails.
“Where is John?” she asked suspiciously, still holding my hand.
“He and Amy went to take care of Amy’s sick grandmother,” I said.
“Who’s Amy?”
“John’s wife.” She dropped my hand, looking surprised. “Oh. I didn’t know he was married.”
