Page 29 of Men or Paws

I blinked. “Why did you buy it if you’re not going to drive it?”

“Personal question,” Rocco said, wagging his finger over his shoulder at me, not bothering to turn around as we approached the steps to enter the house.

“I am going to hate those two words by the end of these three weeks,” I said. “Or maybe by the end of today, at this rate.”

“What if I said them in Italian? Would it make a difference?” Rocco asked.

“I seriously doubt it.”

He turned around so fast I almost ran into his chest on the top step.

Fortunately, I was able to stop myself, but we were inches apart. Again.

“Domanda personale,” Rocco said.

The melodic rhythm of the two Italian words flowed gracefully from his mouth like chianti, stretching out each vowel like a chef delicately pulling apart pork with a fork. Combine that with his enthusiastic hand gestures and I was toast, or more appropriately, focaccia.

Flustered, I could barely speak. “That . . . was . . . uh . . . better.”

Holy ravioli, that was an understatement.

It was very unsettling that the man I despised had a positive quality or two. Of course, it meant absolutely nothing to me in the grand scheme of things.

One thing was for sure, this nonsense—the way my body reacted to his closeness—had to stop. The last thing I needed was a man who looked the way he looked and smelled the way he smelled to be speaking one of the most romantic languages in the world around me.

I reminded myself that I loathed Rocco after how he had humiliated me at the restaurant and had gotten me fired, so there was only one thing that had to be done at this point. I needed to get this tour over with and hightail it to the guesthouse with Houdini before I, heaven forbid, started liking the man.

ChapterSix

Rocco

I am not a psychologist or a medical doctor (and I have never played one on TV), but I have come to the conclusion after spending one hour with Beth Myers that she is a walking paradox, the human version of a dichotomy in dire need of a lobotomy.

I’ll admit there is also the distinct possibility that I’m full of crap, just a confused male who is making up abstract conditions for people I don’t understand.

Most likely it was one of the side effects from reading that awful medical drama TV script last night. The story was a blatant ripoff ofGrey’s Anatomy,no doubt about it. I had no idea how that story ended up in my pile of scripts since I was looking for a project that was light, funny, and original.

The diagnosis for myself, on the other hand, was right on the money.

I was perplexed.

Perplexed by the woman walking through the house with me.

Perplexed that she could annoy me and yet fascinate me at the same time.

One minute, Beth was acting like the president of the “I Hate Rocco Club,” and the next minute, she had the delightful enthusiasm of a kid at a carnival, yanking at my arm, practically jumping up and down as she told me how much she loved my car collection.

What the heck was going on with her? I should have had Beth pee in a cup and submit it to a lab before hiring her. Call me crazy, but I could’ve sworn she was sniffing me, her nose twitching like a rabbit. Maybe she was just weird.

Maybe I was just paranoid.

One thing was for sure, I needed to get to work because my future wasn’t going to secure itself.

Continuing the tour, I ushered Houdini and Beth into the next room down the hallway. “This is the home gym, as you can see.” I gestured to the elliptical machine, the Peloton bike, the treadmill, and the various exercise machines and free weights. “Feel free to workout when you’re not watching Houdini, but it’s off limits between three and four in the afternoon, Monday through Friday.”

“Sounds good,” Beth said. “Do you use all this stuff?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Except for the treadmill.”