I glance down and see a picture of a flamingo. Neon pink, wings stretched wide on glossy cardboard. A goddamn inflatable pool float, smirking up at me from the cover of the package.
I look at the box. Then at her. Then back at the box.
“The fuck is this?”
“A thank-for-helping-yesterday gift,” she says, chin high, though her mouth twitches with mischief. “I heard you, uhh, have a pool. And Idon’t.So this seemed practical.”
“Practical,” I echo flatly. “So really, you just bought yourself a toy to use in my pool.”
Her grin sharpens. “Semantics.”
An unbridled image flashes through my head. Lulu in a bikini. In my pool. On this damn inflatable.
Fuck.
My grip tightens, and Dusty noses the box, tail beating hard enough towhapagainst my thigh.
“If you wanna use my pool, Parnell, you could’ve just said so.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she fires back.
I open my mouth to reply just as a horn bleats from the curb. She turns, lifting a hand in a wave at the waiting taxi before glancing over her shoulder.
“Don’t let Dusty eat that, okay? He’ll poop pink.”
She’s gone before I can even form words, her sandals tapping down the steps, dress swaying as she heads for the car. The door slams, taillights flare red, and I’m left standing on my porch. A six-foot-four NHL defenseman, holding an inflatable neon flamingo.
Dusty whines at the door as I close it, ears perked and waiting for her to come back.
“You’ve got it bad, Dust,” I mutter, shoving the box under my arm as I walk toward the kitchen.
He whines again, stubborn and hopeful. Probably still hearing her laugh in the air. Or remembering the sweep of her hair. Or that damn dress.
I let out a low breath and scrub a hand over my face.
“Don’t get used to it,” I tell him, dropping the box onto the counter harder than I need to.
But his tail keeps thumping, and my eyes keep straying to the window long after her cab’s gone.
Chapter five
Take a hint, bud
Lulu
This guy’s funny. The kind that doesn’t try too hard and lets the punchline sneak up on you until you’re laughing so hard you almost spill salsa down your dress.
That’s my problem. Ilikeguys like this.
“So,” Kieran says as we split the churros from the truck down the row, “Toronto, right? Born and raised?”
The picnic table beneath us rocks when someone shifts on the other side. The lot is crowded with families balancing trays piled high, music thumping from a speaker bolted to a cart, the smell of grilled carne asada mixing with fried dough and cilantro. It’s chaos, and definitely not the wine-bar energy I imagined when he texted:Let’s try this trendy newtaco truck.
Still, he’s charming. Funny. Easy to talk to.
“Yeah. Came out here for school and ended up staying.”
“Canada, huh? Explains why you didn’t flinch when it dropped twenty degrees after sunset.”
