Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I might as well just hold up a sign for his vid that says, The dog likes the way I taste.
Gross.
Well, not gross. I’m sure I taste fabulous. But I don’t want to discuss my peach flavor with my dog’s doctor.
“They usually only eat the panels,” he says, and that’s not totally embarrassing to hear him say even though he delivers this dog truth nugget with a completely straight face. “But I don’t want you to stress, Trina. Dogs eat a lot of non-food items and sometimes they just need their stomach pumped. He’s resting comfortably right now and should be able to go home in about thirty minutes.” He flashes a warm smile, then sets a hand on my arm. “Besides, it was just a thong.”
“Well, that’s good,” I say, still relieved that Nacho is fine and that we’re no longer talking about the panel of my panties.
Except.
Wait.
Hold the hell on.
What did he just say? “A thong?” I ask. It comes out thoroughly skeptical because there’s no way my dog ate a thong. I don’t own any thongs.
Maybe Dr. Lennox is just bad at identifying women’s underwear. I mean, he wouldn’t be the first man who couldn’t tell a bikini from a cheeky or a high-rise from a hipster.
“You just mean that that’s what was left, right? That it looked like a thong? The pink polka-dot pair? I threw the rest of it out at home.”
Dr. Lennox tilts his head, like I’m the one not making sense. “There was a tiny bit of fabric that was pink, and he vomited that first. But then there was a red lacy bit for the floss. That came out in three pieces, but honestly, it wasn’t that hard to puzzle the words together.”
“The words?” I ask, feeling like he’s speaking another language.
The vet has the good grace to look at the counter as he says, “The front had the words bad girl written on it.”
Somehow he manages to say all this with a straight face. Which tells me that many dogs eat many weird things and that an important skill for a vet is being able to not laugh when he learns what type of underwear you wear.
And I’m not laughing either.
Because my dog did not eat my pair.
My jaw hangs open. My heart doesn’t want to compute what he just said. But my brain has already processed this awful news. And my momentary shock is laced with hurt and chased with a giant ball of anger.
My boyfriend didn’t only screw another woman.
That charmed-my-parents, won-over-my-tough-as-nails-sister and obviously-fooled-me-too boyfriend screwed someone else at our apartment.
To make matters worse, that cheating scumbag of a boyfriend screwed that bad girl in front of my dog.
Wait.
Make that soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.
“I can explain.”
I seethe as Jasper utters those three awful words. They’re the kiss of death to any relationship. Not that I had much hope that there would be any sort of reasonable excuse for the presence of another woman’s shredded panties in my darling dog’s digestive tract.
Still, I’m part investigator (and I can tell you which Enneagram types all my friends are too), so I’m damn curious how Jasper’s going to spin this dirty laundry.
I’m back home now, facing off against the man I was sure I’d been falling for. As I clutch my drugged dog, who’s still woozy from the meds, I sweep out my free arm, inviting the stinking, no-good cheater to present his case—right here in the living room. His favorite room, since it’s got that damn symbol of his real love. The TV that blasts every freaking hockey game.
“Have at it,” I bite out. “And bear in mind I’ve read about five thousand romance novels so I’ve heard pretty much all the excuses. But by all means, you take the floor.”
I’ve got the evidence though and I confronted him with it when I walked in the door two minutes ago, wagging a ziplock bag and asking him coolly, calmly, “Any idea why another woman’s panties were in my dog’s belly?” Because damn straight I took that evidence from Dr. Lennox. “I would really, really like to know what the explanation for this is.”
Jasper backs up against his living room wall, right next to the framed tickets of the first ever hockey game his dad took him to. Hair from his man bun falls loose, framing his guilty face. He gulps so visibly it’s like a bullfrog just crawled up his throat.
“I was d-doing laundry,” he begins. “The other day. Down in the basement of the building.” In case I don’t know where the washer and dryer are, I presume. “And our neighbor—you know the redhead from the second floor?”
I growl. The one whose ass I caught him staring at the other week when she walked up the steps in front of us, asking how Nacho’s weave-pole classes were going. Gah. I’d been bamboozled by dog talk. “Delilah,” I supply, anger lacing my tone, but I’m angry with myself. Why didn’t I realize that his ogling of her was a sign? “Continue.”