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Diamond
Ionce went on a date with a dog.
That’s right… a dog.
It’s one of those things you think will never happen to you. Until you show up on your crush’s doorstep and find out your “date” is a border collie who can’t tell the difference between your leg and a chew toy.
I know what you’re thinking. Howin the hell do you confuse a job offer with someone asking you out?
Well, it’s simple, really.
Be a swooning idiot.
The day Everest Cahill came up to me, my brain cells shit the bed—plain and simple. I was so shocked to hear Hottie Cahill knew we inhabited the same planet that I might’ve missed a couple of sentences.
Or five.
I spent most of our conversation mentally planning our wedding before he said, “So, we’re on for Saturday?” Too embarrassed to make him repeat himself, I assumed I’d hit the jackpot.
Boy, was I wrong.
I can still see his mom’s confused smile when I turned up on her porch looking like a million bucks. She was quick to tell me that her son was out of town and the rest of the family was going away for the weekend.
Then she introduced me to their six-month-old puppy, Rio. You guessed it—I wasn’t there for a date with Everest, but to take care of his dog.
And the crazy part?
I agreed.
It turns out my dad had told Everest’s parents I was looking for work when they’d stopped by his restaurant a week prior. I couldn’t believe it. My own father was to blame for the most embarrassing date of my life.
But I needed the money, so I swallowed my pride, slapped on a smile, and rolled with it. Little did I know my dad’s stunt would lead to more job opportunities than I could ever want…
Word spread, and a week later, more furry-friend owners began requesting my services. Before I knew it, I was the town’s “official” dog sitter—yep, as in people pay me to hang out with their dogs—and I was thrilled. I could never convince my parents to get a pet due to my dad’s allergies.
Long story short, I was living the dream.
Until… I wasn’t.
“Get on your fucking knees, prom queen,” a deep voice says, jolting me awake.
Disoriented,I blink once.
Twice.
Where have I heard this voice before?
“Promise me he won’t find out,” a female croaks from the hallway, and I sit up in bed, clutching the blanket to my chest.
I’m not dreaming.
This is real.
There are people in the house.
And they’re right outside my bedroom.
“I already told you I won’t tell him shit,” the masculine voice huffs, and I clench my eyes shut, preparing for impending death—what? Just because the people who broke into my boss’s house at 3:00 a.m. are arguing like a married couple doesn’t mean they’re not serial killers.
