“Me, too,” he says, and eyes me in a way that has me thinking about that time my book club read 50 Shades. I’ll admit, I was scandalized.
Now, I’m more…curious.
“You doing okay?” Dax asks.
I adjust my ponytail and try to look like a woman who wasn’t just thinking about bondage. “I’m good.” I sniff the sleeve of my sweater and wonder how long I’m going to smell like wet dog. I’m pretty sure it’s permeated my pores. “Thanks for rescuing me there.”
“You’re welcome,” he says like a perfect gentleman. A tattoo-covered gentleman who’s been wrestling unruly canines all morning, including two big Rottweilers who weigh more than I do. Is it wrong that I find it kind of hot?
“You’re doing a great job, by the way,” he tells me.
He sounds surprised by that. He’s not the only one. I’ll admit I was taken aback when Dax explained that today’s addition to The Test involved bathing and grooming a batch of dogs rescued from a hoarding situation in Gresham.
But the instant he placed a scared, matted Pomeranian in my arms and ordered me to make her pretty, I got it. I may not be a dog person, but spa days are my jam.
“Those little pom-pom things on the poodle were a nice touch,” Dax says. “Stuff like that helps them get adopted.”
“She really was a sweetheart,” I tell him. “Did you notice how she perked right up after her bath? It’s like she knew she looked beautiful.”
“I noticed. And I’m amazed that Labrador let you paint her toenails.”
I laugh and adjust my damp ponytail again. “She seemed mellow enough to try it. I could never pull it off with any of those terriers.”
He smiles and looks me up and down, then shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you wore high heels and pearls to wash dogs.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me we were washing dogs,” I point out. “You just told me I should dress to get dirty.”
“And to you that says ‘put on seven-hundred-dollar jeans’ instead of ‘where’s my dominatrix costume?’”
“They were a gift,” I fire back. His mention of a dominatrix costume has my cheeks faming, so I choose to nitpick the rest of his comment instead. “How do you know how much Roberto Cavalli jeans cost, anyway?”
The expression he gives me is stony, and I’m not sure what triggered it. “Let’s just say I have experience removing them,” he says after a long pause.
I stare back at him, not sure if he’s trying to make me uncomfortable or if he’s compensating for his own discomfort.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but the jeans were a present from Gary four weeks after he ditched me at the altar and then had a change of heart,” I tell him. “He showed up with a dozen roses, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, and the jeans he knew I’d always wanted.”
“And you were all too happy to take them?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I chased him down the walkway and threw the roses at him,” I snap. “Then I put on the damn jeans, called my sisters, and spent the evening drinking the champagne and toasting to my good fortune at not marrying the asshole.”
Dax stares at me for a few beats. “You surprise me sometimes.”
“I surprise myself sometimes.”
He studies me a moment longer, then nods at the bank of dog kennels lining the wall. “For what it’s worth, you’ve done great here today. With the dogs, I mean. I figured you’d last ten minutes, tops.”
“Well, you figured wrong.”
“I did,” he says. “I may have misjudged you.”
His words warm me as much as those icy-blue eyes, so I decide not to mention the fact that I did consider feeing after ten minutes.
“I like being helpful,” I admit, which is mostly why I stayed. “With the dogs, I mean. Everyone deserves a chance to look and feel their best, and if it helps them find homes, then I’ve done something right.”
“That’s the spirit.” He turns and starts toward the bank of kennels. “Come on. Let’s keep scrubbing.”
I step up beside him, remembering what Jell-O girl told me earlier. “Some of these littler ones are afraid of men,” I remind him. “I can grab her.”
