Page 109

“Old?”Of course, that’s all she got from it.

With a chuckle, I hand her the dog. “I think that’s my cue to exit.” I rub the top of the little fuzzball’s head. He’s kind of cute, I guess. “See ya, Rascal.”

As soon as I move my hand, she slides the collar over his head and then kisses his nose. With a know-it-all grin on her face, she turns back to me. “Thanks.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

She holds the dog away from her body and then sets him down quickly. Standing back up, she says, “I’m so sorry. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”

“Why?” I ask dumbly but then catch on quickly. Looking down, I see the smear across my shirt. “Shit. Guess it’s me who stinks.” Grabbing a clean spot, I pull the shirt away from my body. “I was heading to the office.”

Reaching forward, she ghosts her hand in front of me as if that will help. “I’m so sorry.”

Annoyed, I look between her and the dog, both wearing similar worried expressions. Exhaling heavily, I then say, “I need to go.”

“I really am sorry. It’s such a nice white shirt. Hopefully, it will come out. I’m sure it will. I have a great dry cleaner if you need one.What am I talking about?We’re in Manhattan. Everyone in Manhattan has a great dry cleaner. It’s basically a requirement, like having a favorite coffee shop, deli, and takeout place.”

Her rambling about all the things I have back in LA is a bad reminder of what I’m missing here. A dry cleaner is just another thing I need to figure out and, by looking at the stain, quickly.

Her unease has me feeling the same, so I turn to leave. Caressing my arm, she says, “Wait. Let me pay for the cleaning.”

My gaze meets hers again, where she keeps every emotion in the forefront. I don’t need her sympathy, though. Standing here awkwardly, Rascal staring at me from beside her feet, I add, “I got it.”

“I feel terrible, though.” She steps closer again. “I have a trick for getting ryegrass and fescue out. It might work for the poop.”

“What’s fescue?”

“Technically, it’s turf type tall fescue and perennial ryegrass.” My staring at her doesn’t deter her from continuing. “The grass. You have stains. Make a paste with a few drops of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. Let it sit for at least thirty minutes. Rinse in cool water, and then wash with your normal detergent. That works for me when I get plant stains.”

Disbelief has me wondering if I should run or take notes. “Does that happen often?”

“Not anymore.” She sighs in defeat. “Anyway, it’s a lot of work. A good dry cleaner will make it look brand new.”

There is no way I’m getting this shirt dry-cleaned.It’s going right down the garbage shoot. “Don’t worry about it.” My tone is harsher than I intend, and just to prove I’m in a complete asshole mood, I shoot Rascal a glare. The small dog causes me to grin, lessening my bad mood. It’s really hard to be mad around him, even if he did just cost me a few hundred bucks. “What kind of dog is that?”

“He’s a papillon. Sweet as can be and usually really clean.” Looking around, she says, “People are supposed to pick up their dog’s poop. It’s frustrating when they don’t.” It’s not until that moment that I realize she’s still touching my arm. When I glance at her fingers, she’s quick to pull them back.

As if the smell is getting to her, she wiggles her nose in disgust and takes a few steps back. “I didn’t bring enough money to cover the cost, but I can send?—”

“It’s okay. I can cover the cleaning. As for the smell, I don’t think I’m so lucky.”

“Sorry about that.” The apology drapes her expression, pulling it down.

Well, shit.“Look, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you got your dog back.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replies, shyness creeping in, deepening the pink on her cheeks. Looking down, she smiles at the dog, who seems content to sit by her side all day long if asked.

I should leave because I’m already late for work, and “my mom made me go to the park at 9:17” isn’t a valid excuse—Wait, what time is it?I check my watch, but when my eyes deceive me, I ask, “Do you have the time?”

Her gaze shifts to my wrist before she pulls her phone from a little satchel she has tucked under the bulky sweater. “Nine twenty-three.”

“What? That makes no sense.” I tap the glass face of the watch and then toggle the bezel. When the hands don’t move, I twist the crown. A twelve-thousand-dollar watch, and it’s stopped? That’s about right for how my day’s going.

The blonde(so what if I noticed how much her hair varies in the sunshine)angles her neck. “Your watch stopped. That’s a bummer.” When her eyes return to mine, she adds, “Nine seventeen.”

“What?”

She touches the face of my Rolex and then the heat of her fingertips graze over my skin. “It stopped a few minutes ago on nine seventeen.”