Chapter Four
Theo
Just call me Alpha Dog Crawford
I think Woody and I have finally settled into a routine. It’s been three days since the “alpha incident” as I like to call it and all the instructions that Joey gave me I’ve adopted and implemented.
Now when I call him or administer the medication, Woody is quick to adhere to my commands. It makes me question the way I’ve lived my life up to this point.
If a dog as small as Woody picked up on the fact that I am a push-over and dare I say,Pussy, maybe that’s how I’ve been with people, too. In my relationships – my previous one with Alyssa. Her parents. My own parents.
Even my agent, for fuck’s sake.
Christ, maybe I need to do something about my constant need to people please and do something to please myself for once. I don’t mean act like a thug, or some asshole prick or anything, but maybe I need to straighten my spine a bit more. Pull my shoulders back and tip my chin up and add some swagger.
I’m about to hold my own one-man-march with a sign that reads, “You can do it, Theo” when there’s a knock at the door.
I’m holding the script on my lap that I’ve been reading over the last hour, as I have a casting call tomorrow morning, but I throw it over onto the glass table in front of the sofa and head toward the door.
Woody circles in front of the door, giving a little bark of delight. I’ve only seen him that excited over Patrick and Joey, so I assume it’s her. Unlocking the deadbolts, I swing the door open to find the lovely Josephine from 2B standing in front of me in the hallway.
She looks exasperated, disheveled, and deadly gorgeous.
She’s wearing some flowy-white blouse and a navy-blue pencil skirt that ends at the top of her knees. As my eyes scan her delectable body, I notice her sensible flats and the way her shapely legs are silky bare. When my gaze returns to her face, I see her cheeks tinged a bright pink, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of frustration, confusion and interest.
“Hello, neighbor,” I say in greeting.
Her small hand lands on the doorframe, an unpainted nail agitatedly tapping against it.
She bends her head, staring down at the space between our feet and lets out a loud, desperate sigh.
“I’ve had the shittiest day ever. The kids were horrible. I was passed over for the part-time job I’d applied for to make ends meet this summer, and I locked myself out of my apartment. Is there a sign on my back that reads, “I’m a loser?” she asks, turning her head in both directions to look behind her.
It’s a dick move, but I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s adorable when she’s flustered – a true opposite of what she was the other morning at her place. Then she was in control and sure of herself. Right now, she’s a tightly wound woman who is in desperate need of a drink.
Or a foot massage.
Or a hard fuck.
Hm. I like the sound of that. I could make good on any or all three of them. Wonder what she would say if I proposed that? It’s the only neighborly thing to do, don’t you think?
Joey steps across the threshold and the door slams behind her. She takes a few steps toward the kitchen.
“I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere between school and home, I lost my keys,” she explains, opening a cupboard and pulling out a low ball glass. “I really need a shot of Patrick’s Irish whiskey. And then my spare key. Do you mind?”
Her body looks like it’s about to wither and crash to the floor. My first instinct is to wrap my arms around her and drag her in close for a reassuring hug.
The thought has merit, but even though she’s had a day from hell, and I know her body would be warm and luscious against mine, I resist the urge. We really don’t know each other very well and she might just knee me in the nuts for being pervy.
Plus, that’s what the old Theo would do. Comfort the woman in distress. Not the new me. No, Tough Theo doesn’t fall for that shit.
I need to hold my ground. Be the alpha. Man-up or whatever shit they say that turns girly men into Big Dogs. I can’t just bend over backwards for a woman I barely know and let her take advantage of the situation just because she needs a shoulder to cry on.
I watch her as she rummages around the kitchen, locating the bottle of whisky and pouring a finger into the glass. She catches me staring at her round breasts pressed firmly against the shirt, her nipples pebbling hard into tantalizing peaks that I have the urge to flick and nip with my mouth.
Her look of confusion, or disgust, squashes that image as soon as it came to mind.
“I’m sorry. I just barged in her and started bitching about my day. Do you want a shot?”
