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God—what kind of dog? I don’t know dog breeds because I don’t actually dogsit. I do babysit sometimes, for Isla. “Tiny one. Sleeps a lot, though, so… She’s easy as long as she’s fed.”
“Fun,” Austin says. “Well, see you tomorrow.”
Somehow, I manage to remember my manners. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Anytime,” He laughs as he grabs the pizza box, starting out the door. “You’re welcome for this beautiful gourmet meal.”
“I liked it.” My voice is too soft, too sincere, but Austin thankfully is already out the door.
I slump back, exhaling shakily.
I cannot be making eyes at the boss of a job that is barely mine, I scold myself sternly.
As if my life wasn’t already complicated enough.
