Chapter Eight
Pepper sipped her second cup of coffee and ignored her wristwatch ticking down the seconds until she began her new (temporary, but oh-my-God-this-is-happening-what-is-life?) occupation: Ruff Love dog walker. How wonderful that she’d graduated cum laude from NYU Law. Preparing to counsel, strategize, write, advocate, and negotiate would surely be assets in a role where her main responsibilities were keeping pups moving in a forward trajectory and not getting too pooped to scoop.
That second duty should be underlined and highlighted. Otherwise she was liable to be hit with Mayor Marino’s new dog waste ordinance, $75 for each offense. A fine that would come out ofherpaycheck. Norma’s otherwise cheerful letter of employment didn’t mince words in that department.
She wasn’t looking to break rules. Or even get noticed around town. If a single solitary word—or worse, a photo—of her dog walking leaked out in social media, she’d never be able to show her face at an NYU alumni event.
She stood and drained her mug in one long swallow. This was pointless fretting; word wouldn’t get out. For the next few months, her life would be simple: head down, walk the dogs, collect the paychecks, save the money, and get the hell out of Dodge by the time her lease expired with enough socked away to put down first and last month’s rent in any city in America. Because by then she’d have secured another job offer (please, Sweet Baby Jesus) and this strange Georgia summer could be her dirty little secret.
She glanced out the window, wiped her mouth, and blinked. Then she blinked again, in case “hallucinating half-naked men” could be added to her list of troubles. Nope. This was actually happening. Rhett Valentine sauntered into the bedroom opposite her window, dressed in nothing but a low-slung gray towel, jaw slathered with shaving cream.
She swallowed hard. He didn’t look like the gym rat cover of a men’s fitness magazine. No pretty boy waxed chest and six-pack here. He rocked a hard torso dusted by dark hair. A strong, capable, male body, built to be used, not for looks.
Especially not her own pervy peep show.
Her heart paid a friendly visit to her lower intestines as he’d reached into his closet, fisted a T-shirt, and disappeared without an inkling of her creeper status.
“Right.” She stood. Time for Neighbor Crush Training Number Two. Today’s lesson?
Leave it.
Closing the blinds would be too obvious, so instead she retreated to the safety of the kitchen. Every step returned a feeling of control. In her normal world, a silly crush would be harmless. But this was purgatory. Ogling the neighbor’s sexy bod wasn’t going to get her out of here. Ain’t nobody got time for that. What she did have time for was lifting her mind out of the gutter and getting together a game plan. First step, not succumbing to the gut-twisting terror of dog walking. She had faced a serious setback and needed to prove that she wouldn’t be destroyed by fear. Her clients were dogs, not hell demons, precious pets to Everland’s old and infirm. She could do this.
Correction.
Shewoulddo this.
Five minutes later, she marched to her first appointment, a soldier heading into the front lines.
“Turn left onto East Forever Lane,” a crisp male British accent said. She’d reset Siri’s voice last night after watching the lake scene from the BBC’sPride and Prejudicetwenty-four times (stopping only because her laptop ran out of batteries and she was too lazy to fetch the charger). If one couldn’t have a Darcy in the bedroom, why not have a Darcy intone directions?
“Proceed down the route and the destination is on your left.”
“Forty-two, forty-three, ah, here we are. Forty-four Forever.” She paused in front of the Drummond house. The ornate gables made it look like a wedding cake. Norma had passed Rhett a series of instructions for each client. Mr. Drummond was at dialysis Tuesday mornings, and his Chihuahua, Wolfgang, waited in the backyard.
A perfect first client. Its teeth were the size of Tic Tacs. If it bit her, she could pop it in a six-inch sub and eat it for lunch. Not that she’d do that. Probably.
The garden was neatly ordered, shrubs trimmed to perfection. No leaf out of place. She let herself through the gate and froze. The spotted Chihuahua in the center of the lawn wasn’t growling with a look that said, “Death, from the ankles down!” No. He was too busy committing obscene acts on a throw pillow. Moves that might be illegal in thirteen states.
What was the etiquette for hound humping? Should she look away? Shoo it off? She glanced up instead. Not a cloud in the sky. Oh, a butterfly. How ’bout that.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Scratch that idea. No point focusing on anything when that dog was going at it like this was his last day on Earth. Pepper grabbed the leash hanging next to the grill. “Hi there, Wolfgang. Yoo hoo. Over here.”
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
She’d sweated blood and tears in law school for this?
Pushing aside a fleeting wish for a hazmat suit, she dropped into a crouch and advanced. Where was she going to grab him? The little fella was gyrating in a manner that would make Elvis eat his heart out. Under his forearms seemed like the safest plan of attack. That was about as far as one could get from the danger zone.
She advanced arms outstretched. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four. Almost there. Wolfgang froze mid-pump, tail and ears fully alert. His pointed nose turned up, sniffing.
Before she could react, he’d ditched the pillow like yesterday’s news, in favor of a new lover. Her left leg.
“No! Bad dog!” This pint-sized pervert made her want to belly flop into a kiddie pool brimming with Purell.
In addition to violating pillows and an innocent pair of LuLaRoe leggings, Wolfgang’s other pastime included ignoring dog walker commands, because it took her ten minutes to disentangle the little sucker from her person and wrangle him onto a leash. Another four to reach the sidewalk.
