Page 5 of The Belle and the Biker

Southern Belles rule! But I refrain from doing a victory dance. Until I am rid of this dog and out the door, I am a weak, incapable woman on the verge of being overcome by the vapors.

"Sign there." He jabs a grimy finger at the clipboard. "Says you're surrendering the animal to be terminated. It'll cost fifty bucks."

"What?" I shriek.

"If you don't have the fifty, I guess you could just leave the dog on the counter, and I'll put it down as owner abandonment."

A yip of alarm emits from the purse. I think it knows what he just said.

If I hand the dog over to be murdered, I will lose massive amounts of those karma points I've worked so hard to accumulate. My karma bank will be in the red. And I'll have nothing to put in my good deeds book today.

I groan in frustration. Okay, as soon as I finish my photo shoot, I'll have to find a shelter that's not full.

"Thank you for your assistance," I say tightly and stomp out onto the street. Damn it. Scarlett O'Hara's failed me when I needed her the most.

I set off at a brisk pace. "You will behave, you will be quiet during my entire photoshoot, and you will keep your stench to yourself," I inform my purse, which earns me a weird look from a businessman in a wool coat. I ignore him and break into a jog.

The photographer's studio is fifteen blocks from the animal shelter. I race the rest of the way there, dodging slow-moving clots of tourists, the cold air burning my lungs. I run up the steps and burst into a big, industrial-chic office with brilliant overhead lighting and a huffy secretary. The nameplate on her desk identifies her as Monica.

"Savannah Harkwell? You're late," she says. Then she wrinkles up her nose. "What is that smell?"

"What smell?" I lie in between gasps. Ugh. I need to start jogging again. "I don't smell anything."

The dog lets out a helpful yip, giving me away.

Monica stands up, leans over her desk, and stares into my purse. When she sees the dog, she sucks in her breath and, by the look on her face, immediately regrets it. The creature nestled in my scarf is no Paris Hilton purse dog, all cute and dolled up with a bow in its topknot. It looks like an animated muddy tumbleweed and smells like it bathes in real poo rather than shampoo.

"You'll have to get rid of that thing," she says haughtily.

"I tried!" I protest. "I just found it. The closest animal shelter isn't taking any more dogs, and they said they'd have to put it down."

She wrinkles up her perfect little nose and sinks back into her chair, scooting farther away from us. "That would probably be for the best."

Every so often, I forget that I'm sweet, agreeable Savannah 2.0. Like, whenever someone annoys me. Okay, it happens on pretty much a daily basis.

"Really?" I snap. "Well, you know what I think would be for the best? If you'd stop trying to stuff twenty pounds of bitch into a ten-pound bag." It's true. She works for a plus-size clothing company, which is supposed to embrace body positivity and acceptance, and she's a size eight wearing a size four sheath dress. And not well.

She rears back in her seat. "I've never been so insulted!"

Once I get started, I just can't stop myself. "Oh, I'm pretty sure you have."

Her face flushes angrily as she jabs her French-manicured finger toward the exit sign. "The door's that way."

I sweep out of the office with my head held high as if it were my decision to leave. Once I'm out on the street, my shoulders slump. That was a $500 modeling assignment, and I'm sure they'll also report me to the modeling agency. My agent will be furious, and getting more jobs with a reputation for being difficult will be hard. Damnit. I hate being a good person; it doesn't pay well.

I bring my purse up so it's level with my face. "You just cost me a very good gig."

The dog wags its tail.

"That doesn't work on me," I inform it. "It's off to the pound for you. I don't like dogs, you smell bad, and I don't like dogs."

The dog blinks up at me with love shining from its big, pop eyes. What a dumb animal.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give you a bath," I grumble. "If you looked less horrifying, you'd be more likely to get adopted."

I'm hoping to ask Tawny if she knows where to find a no-kill animal shelter, but she's not there when I get back to the apartment. She left a note on the fridge saying she ran out to get Axl some vitamins for his hangover.

I spend the next hour bathing and detangling the dog. I sacrifice a hairbrush, which I will burn at the first opportunity, and I fetch scissors and snip away hair mats. Finally, a girl dog with bug eyes and enormous ears emerges. Her lower jaw juts out, revealing several snaggly teeth.

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