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“There’s never been a problem before. Mr. Smith isn’t much of a roamer.”
“I think he’s more interested in Strudel than exploring the terrain.”
“That’s never been a problem before, either.”
His back came up. Admittedly, he’d come here primed to be annoyed because she’d been so dismissive earlier, but there was a definite tone to her words. As though somehow he and Strudel were responsible for her dog’s behavior.
“I guess times have changed. We should probably do a temporary fix and then get some quotes to have it repaired.”
The phone rang inside her house and she glanced over her shoulder. The move drew his attention to her breasts—small but perky. He gave himself a mental shake. As if he cared what her breasts looked like. They were attached to the rest of her, which was toned within an inch of its life and way too scrawny for his tastes.
“I need to get that,” she said as she refocused on him.
“Fine. But we need to deal with this fence or Mr. Smith is going to come visiting again.”
“I’m sorry, but I really need to take this call. I’ll get back to you.” There was a distracted urgency beneath her words as she reached for the knob.
He opened his mouth to protest—as the door swung shut in his face for the second time that day.
“You cannot be serious,” he told the shiny black wood.
But she was. She was also the rudest person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He was tempted to knock again and force her to deal with him, but he had an image of himself knocking till the cows came home and her ignoring him as she dealt with her vitally important, utterly life-transforming phone call.
He’d been de-balled quite enough by his wife’s staggering infidelity, thank you very much. He had no intention of hanging around to play the part of supplicant.
He remembered an old saying as he returned to his aunt’s house: no good turn goes unpunished.
Indeed.
