Page 17 of Grump Hard
She’s ridiculous. And…funny.
If it weren’t for the “goose being assaulted” sound of the squeaky toy rattling my nerves for the next few minutes as I keep Barry grinning for the camera, I might actually be smiling myself. The thought makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve felt like smiling for a sustained length of time.
It’s been a while
A long while.
I’m still trying to evaluate just how long when Holly declares the session a complete success. She shows the owner a few of the shots in the display window on the back of her camera, and “Dog Mom” bursts into fresh tears of pure happiness.
She’s so pleased, she throws her arms around me as I’m handing Barry his treat for a job well done.
“Thank you,” she sobs. “I’ll treasure these forever! Thank you so much.”
I give her back a stiff pat. “Of course. Have a…nice night.”
“And a Merry Christmas,” Holly Jo enthuses, appearing by my side to wave them off. Once they’re out of earshot, she asks in a softer voice, “How you holding up, Grumpy?”
“I hate the sound of that toy.”
She grins up at me. “But you loved Barry. And that hug Brenda gave you. I could tell you were really enjoying that.”
Lips twitching at the edges, I shake my head. “You’re not just diabolical. You’re sadistic.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “What? I am not! I take no pleasure in the pain of others.” Leaning closer, she whispers, “But your safe word, should you need it, is Tickly Bear.”
“It is not,” I say, losing the battle against the corners of my mouth.
“There it is!” She beams as she points to my lips. “There’s a smile! Wow.” She bites her bottom lip in a way that makes me long to do the same, her smile fading as she adds, “Yeah. That’s nice. You look good in a smile, Luke Ratcliffe.”
And you look very kissable, Holly Jo Hadley, I think.
The thought is enough to make me take a step back and banish the ridiculous grin from my face.
I’m not here for that.
That is not on the table.
Even if Holly Jo were interested in kissing a man with Seasonal Grouch Disorder—which she surely is not—I don’t engage in casual connections at this point in my life. I don’t pursue a woman romantically unless there’s long-term potential, and there is rarely long-term potential.
It certainly isn’t present here.
Holly is a bright, happy, optimistic, merry-making fixture of Silver Bell Falls. I’m a jaded, calculating, emotionally stunted businessman who can’t get back to the city fast enough.
So, I simply clear my throat, avoiding eye contact as I ask, “How long until the next client?”
“About ten minutes,” she says, the teasing vanished from her tone. “While we wait, I’ll see if I can find a toy with a less abrasive squeak.”
“Thank you,” I say formally. “I would appreciate that.”
The next hour is a parade of indignities for both me and the poor animals.
The Persian I dress in an elf costume is clearly not any happier to be here than I am, but she heroically resists the urge to claw my eyes out. I thank her for her restraint as I fetch cat chews from a smaller container behind the dog treats, sending her on her way just as our next client appears.
We welcome a shy corgi, a bulldog with a drooly grin, and several mutts, before another cat arrives, this one a tabby who appears to be on drugs.
His pupils are eerily enormous and entirely haunted. As I slide his elf hat into place, it feels like he’s staring into my soul—and finding it lacking.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
