"You're crazy."
"You say crazy, I say keeping you safe. After your shift today, we’ll swing by your house so you can water the plants."
Hmmm. That could be a problem because when Spencer gets to my house, he won’t find any plants.
"On second thought," I laugh flatly, "I'll just call Regina and have her stop by. I don’t want to put myself in any unnecessary danger."
Spencer smiles, and it's a little too smug—like he knows exactly what just happened. "Great. Now let’s get back to the important matter at hand. If you didn't throw away the condom, and I didn't throw away the condom, where is the condom?"
He makes a good point. Whereisthe condom? My eyes scan the floor where he pointed to earlier, but there's absolutely no evidence found. I check it again until my attention is stolen by the large black dog who walks into the room. Frankie seems to double in size every day, and it won't be much longer before she meets my hips.
Both our eyes steady on the mischievous dog as she plops down in the middle of the floor between the two of us. A moment passes in silence, both of us putting the idea together in our heads.
Spencer pulls his hands through his hair in slow motion as he makes the connection. "No," he says.
My lips pinch together, because I think yes. "Frankie…"
The dog in question—the one who eats everything in sight—stands and slowly trots away, headed to the living room. Spencer watches for a few seconds and then sprints after her. "Frankie, stop!"
I follow the two of them out, but at a much slower pace. When I catch up to Spencer and Frankie, he has his face next to hers, trying to peel her teeth apart and look inside. Of course, Frankie isn’t it having any of it.
"Open your mouth," Spencer pleads, lifting up one side of Frankie's lips at a time. With her mouth clamped shut, there's not much to see besides big dog teeth.
I hate to ask the question.
I really don't want to ask the question.
But someone has to.
"Do you think we should call the vet?"
Spencer stands, wiping the dogs drool on his pants. He sighs and stares down at his troublemaker.
Frankie has eaten a lot of things; handmade soap, trash bags, anything in the trash, really, and a boot if Spencer's story is to be believed. But this…this is something completely different.
Can dogs digest latex?
"No." At first, I think he's answering my unspoken question about dogs and latex, but then he walks to the couch and pulls out a cell phone. "We'll set a timer for thirty minutes, and if nothing happens, then we’ll call the vet."
It's a reasonable idea except I need to be to the hospital in twenty minutes. Although… "Okay, well, you stay here and watch Frankie. I've got to start my shift. Text me if she's okay."
Spencer's eyes narrow, and I'm totally busted, but I refuse to admit defeat so early and walk a few steps to the door.
"Not so fast." His words stop me as I'm about to grab my purse. "Hudson lives in this complex, too. I'll get him to come and sit with Frankie."
"I don't think you need to do that." I shake my head back and forth for added emphasis, but Spencer's already typing out a message on his phone.
It takes less than three minutes for there to be a knock on the door. Spencer’s smile is much too big as he walks past me to open it.
"It took you long enough." He opens the door further.
"Dude, I was in the shower." A tall and lean but muscular guy walks into the apartment. His dark brown hair is almost black, but his eyes are light blue and give him a soft look overall. “You said it was a 911 situation. What’s up? Is Ridge ready to make a move?”
"No. I need you to watch Frankie for me."
"The dog?" Hudson’s question comes off confused.
Spencer shrugs. "Yeah, the dog."
