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But what?
What can I say?
‘You’re stuck with them’ sounds plain old rude.
The habitual desire to soften, sugarcoat, and be pleasing makes me pause. I want to make this better, but I’m finding that hard to do.
“This is unacceptable,” Brock barks as he paces across the room. He looks down at the water bowl, which has a few puddles around it. “Are dogs always this messy when they drink? Do they know my floors are Italian marble?”
“Um… yes, dogs drink with their tongues, so they’re messy. And no, I’m guessing these two have no clue what your floors are made of.”
“Expensive Italian marble,” he mutters. “At least the old one should get it. He’s been around a while.”
For some reason, that strikes me as funny. Maybe it’s because I’m still running on four hours of sleep, and at this point, my brain synapses are shooting blanks. I feel my lip twitch. “What, like the older a dog gets, the more people-stuff they should understand?”
He swivels on me. “Do you think this is funny?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.”
I’m nervous.
Butterflies flit and flutter inside me, deep in my belly, in a way I can’t control.
I’ve listened to Brock’s podcast for hours upon hours. I’ve stared at his image in various poses when filling orders thousands of times. I’ve sat at that desk in his company headquarters, day after day, for six whole years. Now, suddenly, I’m tossed into this situation where it’s just me and him, and it’s messing with my head.
He walks closer to me. “You do think this is funny. Your lips doing that twitchy thing, like when you told me about Vanessa’s text message.”
Oh, my goodness. He smells delicious. Manly in a way that makes my blood rush. “Right. Those kisses she sent.”
“Yes. The kisses. Three of them.”
Talking about kisses with Brock is not helping my state.
Plus, my tired brain keeps coming back to the idea of dogs understanding the value of Italian marble.
I try to fight off my smile, but I can’t. “Sorry. I’m just thinking about what that would be like if dogs started to understand our world better as they aged. You know, like they turn ten, and all of a sudden, they know how to read. Or thirteen, and they can drive cars. Fourteen, they can help us pay our taxes.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know.” I feel drunk. This is not good. “But wouldn’t it be funny? I’m glad it’s not that way, though. Dogs shouldn’t ever have to learn all the boring people stuff, like expensive Italian marble. They should get better at dog stuff as they get older. You know, like how to enjoy a great view. How to take in a whole story based on sniffing one patch of grass. They get better at napping, that’s for sure.”
I stroke Mr. Brown’s soft back. He leans against me, so now I’m a doggy-Gwen-doggy sandwich.
“They like you,” Brock says. “Why don’t you take them home?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. The house I’m living in is a disaster zone. Nails, wood, torn up flooring, the works.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds worse than your desk.”
I’m not painting a good picture of myself tonight.
Maybe that’s okay, though. It’s not like I want a promotion. I’m just trying to survive this stint in Mandy’s shoes before someone more qualified steps in.
“Yeah, definitely more messy than my desk. At least it’s temporary. My brother and I are flipping a house.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Anyway, if I were you, I’d just keep an ear out for any barking or whining tonight. Better yet, leave your bedroom door open. They could come find you if they have to go out.”
“I don’t like this.”
Tough, I want to say.
