I stare down at the colorful, smooth, plastic objects, very much not meant to be worn.
Now the question is, do I give this to the sweet ol’ ladies at the front desk?
Knock at my stranger's door and offer it back, pretending not to know what lies right here in front of me?
Or, do I wait for her to come crawling back?
The latter sounds like the best plan.
Chapter Three
SHAY
IREACH FOR the door handle and stop.
“It’s you two again.”
I survived the town smothered in hearts, roses, and Valentine’s cheer shoved down my throat at every turn. Even the small talk and a woman who tried to sell me a cat pillow, she claimed had been knitted with cat hair.
Not sure how I feel about that.
But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it past the dogs waiting on the other side of the glass oval in the heavy wooden front door.
Not humping.
Not growling.
Just sitting. Watching.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say through the glass.
They don’t blink.
One tilts its head. The other’s lip rises just enough to show teeth. It’s not a snarl, but it’s not a smile either.
I lift my camera, press my eye to the viewfinder, and take the shot.
Both dogs shift at once. Not forward or backward. Just shift enough to scrape claws against the floor.
“That felt like a mistake.” I lower the camera.
The dogs don’t move. They watch, tails still and bodies alert.
“You didn’t like that, huh? My bad. No more paparazzi. This is a very private moment you’re having. I respect that.”
