The best boy in question trots my way right now, in all his loaf-of-bread Corgi mix glory. When he arrives, he parks himself in a perfect sit at my feet, then offers me a paw for high-fiving.
“Dude, now you’re just showing off for your dog trainer,” Florence says to him, then scratches his chin. “But like I told you, Chloe’s not working tonight.” Florence turns back to me and squeezes my arm. “I told Bagel you’re not here to babysit him. So do not even think about training him, okay? I want this party to be fun for everyone. No work. Just good times.”
And…I spoke too soon. With those two words spoken—no work—it’d probably be gauche to network tonight.
“I can’t think of anything more fun than this,” I say as brightly as I can muster.
Except maybe a stiff drink. Might as well bring the pity party here.
“Pro tip: get the Fuzzy Navel Hound. You won’t regret it,” she says with a straight face as if she’s read my mind. She gestures to the bar, a few feet from the lake.
“Sounds delish,” I say.
When she pats her thigh and Bagel follows gamely along as she presumably heads off to chat with someone else, I draw a deep breath, then reset my plans. Maybe it’s not the right place to network. But at least it’s a warm night, the drinks are flowing, and the entertainment looks to be top-notch.
If nothing else, this party will be a good story to tell my besties about when I return to town.
As I beeline to the bar in search of a Fuzzy Navel Hound, whatever that is, my gaze lands on a tall, sturdy man resting an elbow against the end of the bar, checking out the scene. He has dark, wavy hair, soulful eyes, and a scowl on his handsome face.
Hello, sir.
Why am I always attracted to the grumpy ones? If I only knew, I could write a book about the charisma of the cantankerous male. My body hums as I take in the chiseled jaw lined with a trim beard, the strong nose, the broad chest. He’s dressed in khaki shorts and a white linen shirt that can’t hide the muscles in his arms. His eyes are crinkled at the corners as he seems to take in the whole event.
But I keep returning to that serious mouth. Especially since his scruff is making me wonder if I could use his beard as an exfoliator.
On my thighs.
That sounds better than salted caramel tiramisu ice cream for erasing the day.
But when he turns to a stunning brunette by his side, my shoulders slump.
Of course he’s taken. That’s just my luck.
2
A DAY ERASER
SAWYER
My sisters have cajoled me into doing a lot of things for them over the years. Going shopping for prom dresses. Taking them to a boy band concert. Driving them to the mall to get their ears double-pierced when Mom wasn’t paying attention.
But a dog party?
I can’t believe this is my life right now. If this is rock bottom, I’ve hit it. The band is playing the riff for “Who Let the Dogs Out” for their sound check, their amps crackling as a Golden Retriever by the lake howls along like it’s the lead singer.
There’s a bobbing-for-bones bucket over by the gazebo, where a soggy Bulldog tries to dunk his entire head in.
On the dock several feet away, the dogs race off to dive into the lake, water spraying everywhere as a lifeguard—the host’s boyfriend, I’m told—watches the dogs like a sentry. Next to him sits a take-one-slash-leave-one basket of dog toys.
Pretty sure I even saw costume changes for the canine of honor hanging on a tree. I turn to Juliet. “Bagel is going to be wearing a vest later.A vest.”
Juliet arches a brow. “And this bothers you because you hate vests?”
“Of course I don’t hate vests,” I answer.
“Then what’s the problem, Sawyer?” She holds her arms out wide, gesturing to the most over-the-top dog park ever. I bet this would put dog parks in Beverly Hills to shame. “You’re a dog person.”
“Yeah, but I’m not adog person,” I say, sketching air quotes.
