Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Finally, fucking finally, mornings shine again.
I’m talking to my brother on the phone, updating him on yesterday’s dog-for-dough exchange. “And then I signed the check,” I finish.
Bryan whistles in begrudging admiration. “Damn, that is some slick work on Callie’s part.”
“Yes, please laud my ex’s talents a little more,” I say drily, slowing for Trudy to sniff the step of a locksmith’s shop.
“That’s not what I meant. Some people say they have the worst ex, but you truly do. She is the literal worst. You could write one of those columns for BuzzFeed or HuffPost on being hoodwinked by online dating,” he points out, trying to be helpful. “So other guys can be on the lookout.”
I get where he’s coming from, but no effing way. “That’s a hard pass on telling the world how I was suckered,” I say, shuddering. Dating is a game of Frogger where everyone dies. That’s the only useful piece of advice I’d have to share. “I’m still on a dating info blackout. No writing about it; no reading about it. That shit stresses me out. I’m trying to build my business, not develop an ulcer at age twenty-nine.”
“I hear ya,” he says. “Best to put the whole Callie mess behind you and look forward.”
“That’s the plan.” But focusing on business won’t be easy. I’m out five grand and rent is insane at my combo bike/flower shop in the Village. I’ve got to find a way to market Bikes and Blooms more, especially since competition is getting tougher on both sides of the business, and my flower shop manager is about to go on maternity leave. I have a new hire to take care of too. I really could have used those five big bills for new online ads. But when I tug the leash gently and Trudy turns her sweet face up at me, I try not to worry. “All worth it though for my girl.”
We walk on.
“You and your dog,” Bryan says. “And let’s keep it that way for now, okay?”
He’s preaching to the choir. “Yup, it’s just Trudy and . . .”
My pulse picks up as I catch a glimpse of chestnut hair and a cute figure.
Whoa. Is that who I think it is?
I’m momentarily distracted by yoga pants and fate.
Glitter Gal just crossed the street up ahead, and now she’s walking her tiny blond monster thirty or so feet in front of me. What are the chances? Well, okay, she lives on Grove, so the chances aren’t that slim.
“You still there, Milo?” Bryan asks.
Busted. But in my defense, Glitter Gal is wearing pink yoga pants, and her hair is swept up in a bouncy ponytail.
“Yeah, but yoga pants,” I say stupidly, trying to explain my temporary loss of power.
“English, please.”
I drop my voice; I don’t want all of New York to know I’m the horndog who ogles his neighbor. Just my brother gets that intel. “The woman in front of me is wearing tight pink workout pants. I ran into her yesterday, and a few months before that, and she’s fucking adorable and has these skull earrings I need to return to her. Oh, and Miss Yoga Pants has a dog too,” I babble as I pass an organic dry cleaner, doing my best to stop gawking at the brunette.
I’m failing miserably, though, but my eyes are so damn happy right now.
“Milo,” Bryan growls, like only an older brother can. “Get it together, man. Didn’t you just say you’re not dating?”
I straighten my spine. Yeah, I did. Shit. I need to act like it. “I’m not dating,” I say, defending myself. “I’m staring like the pig I am.”
“If the oink fits.” Then his tone shifts to serious. “You don’t need any more trouble in your life right now.”
I nod like that’ll reinforce the point. He’s so damn right. “Yup. I’ll just return her earrings, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Be careful,” he warns.
“I will,” I say, then hang up.
I’m simply going to be the ombudsman at the Neighborhood Department of Lost and Found. That’s the right thing to do. The earrings are upstairs in my apartment, so once I catch up to her, I’ll get her name and number, and then drop them off later.
Wait. I won’t even get her number. Just her name. I can be good. I’m like Trudy—highly trainable.
She rounds the corner onto Grove Street, and I pick up the pace so I can catch up to her before she reaches her door. I turn onto the same block, Trudy and I race-walking till Glitter Gal is ten, five, three feet in front. “Hey there,” I call out.
She wheels around, arms raised instantly in some sort of self-defense move, leash curled around her wrist. Her dog chirps at me, shouting dog obscenities.
“Whoa,” I say immediately, lifting my hands in surrender.
With a relieved sigh, she lowers her hands. “It’s you. Whew. You just never know.” She blinks, then smiles. Damn, she really is pretty with those freckles and those bright green eyes. Shifting her attention to the little guy, she coos to him, “It’s fine, honey.”