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)
He stops barking.
“Yeah, it’s just . . . me,” I say, as Trudy whines excitedly, then sniffs at the littler dog as they scope each other out.
The brunette points at my beard. “You’re no longer a leprechaun.”
“Soap. It works wonders.”
Pressing a hand to her chest, she says, “I too love soap.” Then her focus drifts down to my pup. “And you have a dog, I see.”
I beam. “That’s Trudy. She’s all mine, and she’s very, very friendly,” I say, as Trudy makes an honest man of me by going full downward dog mode to say hi to the other pup.
“Mine is StudMuffin,” she says.
“What?” I ask, strangling the word.
“He’s StudMuffin,” she repeats.
Oh, man. I’m an idiot. “You said that yesterday and I thought—”
Her smile stretches. “You thought I was calling you StudMuffin?”
“Let’s pretend I didn’t even suggest that,” I say.
Of course she didn’t call you Stud Muffin. That’s not a thing people do. Callie did such a number on you that you don’t even know how normal convos with women work.
I choose an easier topic for conversation, rather than segueing straight into “So, I kidnapped your earrings” and appearing even stranger than I already have. Since the pooches are wound up in a sniffing circle, I point to them. “Your dog is less incensed today.”
Glitter Gal’s lips curve up. “He’s only enraged by bikes, skateboards, and scooters. But bikes infuriate him the most.”
“Cabs, buses, and trucks are my enemy when I’m riding a bike, so I do understand having a hit list,” I say.
She laughs. Yes! This is it. The perfect opportunity.
“By the way, do you have skull—”
A foghorn blares from her phone and I grimace while she winces. That is the most obnoxious sound I’ve ever heard.
“That’s my sister,” she whispers heavily, as if her sister is summoning her to the underworld. “It’s her emergency ring. I have to go.”
“I hope everything’s okay,” I say, but she’s answered the phone and is walking toward her stoop. I try not to eavesdrop, but I can’t help but pick up the tail end of her conversation.
She freezes.
“For real? She said that online?” And she sounds horrified as she continues up the steps like she’s heading to the guillotine. “Are you serious?”
A pause, and her steps falter. “Oh, god. I must have . . . Oh no . . . I can’t believe I sent that to her.”
Shit, someone is having a bad day.
Maybe the earrings will cheer her up. But I can do one better. I can fix them for her, and perhaps that’ll be the pick-me-up she needs. Then, I’ll leave them on her stoop and be on my way.
I have problems of my own, and none of them will be solved by trying to engineer another flirting session.
I just wish she weren’t so damn flirt-worthy.
5
The Sex and Sandwiches Giveaway
Veronica
* * *
I’m shaking with embarrassment as I shut the door of my apartment and sink to the floor.
“I thought it might be you when I saw the sex and sandwiches post from Agnes.”
“Yeah, kind of a giveaway, I’m the culprit.”
“But at least it’s not trending,” Hazel says, trying to make the best of my blunder.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter.
“No, you’re not. We’ll find a way to fix this. We always do,” she says, eager to flex her big sister problem-solving muscles, and they’re buff and toned for sure.
Only, I don’t know if anyone can repair this damage.
“Thanks, Hazel,” I choke out, pushing past the knot in my throat as I hang up and brace myself for all kinds of backlash.
While StudMuffin wanders to his water dish, I peek at my work email on my phone, then jerk away, gasping in terror. No wonder there were so many messages blinking at me when I got out of bed.
Not only did I send my Virgin Club column to Bellamy last night, I also, evidently, sent my bang-me-on-the-balcony fantasy to the entire distribution list at McGee Whitney Books, and to one very old-fashioned author, who was CC’ed too.
How the hell did this happen?
Heading to my laptop at the table, I try to retrace my steps from yesterday. I finished the editorial letter, opened the email to my company, then hit pause. I went to my deck, dictated The Virgin Club column, then when I got it back and edited it, I must have . . .
I groan.
When I copied my anonymous sex column, I must have hit paste in two places—once to Bellamy and once to everyone at work, copying on top of the editorial letter I’d meant to send.
But I didn’t hit send on the Agnes letter. So how the hell is this damning mixed-up email in my sent messages?
Wishing terribly for that time machine once more, I glance up from the screen as Hot Stuff saunters out of the bathroom and heads my way, looking thoroughly innocent.