Those eyes.
Those big, brown, beautiful eyes, spinning with disappointment.
That fuckinghurt, and yes, I’m keenly aware there’s no one else to blame.
I wouldn’t pretend to date me for a million dollars either.
Jackass idiot.
I deserved far worse than the way she stormed out like I lit her on fire. Plus, the awkward looks from the bartender and the patrons around me.
Maybe they saw a clueless donkey sooner than I did, bleating selfish promises at a woman he barely knows like he’s the miracle in life she’s been waiting for.
Luis looks at me sharply and clears his throat.
I forget he can read my mind. He’s the only one who knows about that disaster, and he’s spent enough time around me to know how fuckups eat me alive.
“Right,” I tell Grace, my brain filling in the parts of the conversation where I zoned out. “If they’re ready, bring the dogs in. We’re not getting anywhere if they don’t like it.”
“Coming right up!” She heads for the door to the back room, and I lean against the chrome table.
“Bad date still got you down?” Luis asks dryly.
I shoot him a dirty look.
“You can always come back another day,” he adds.
“No. We have to see if this works.”
Goddamn, I hope it does.
“The sooner we can check off our formula, the faster it goes into production.”
He nods, looking unconvinced. He has a sixth sense for a hell of a lot more than just driving and organizing my life. Somehow, he always knows when I’m bullshitting.
Although this time, I’m hopeful. We’re teetering on the edge of a breakthrough.
Like Grace, though, I’m not sold on the heirloom grains being our missing piece.
But before I can mull over that too long, the door opens and three happy dogs pile in. They’re all golden retrievers with enormous appetites. If this works, we’ll extend our taste trials to some other breeds.
After the dogs sniff my hand and settle in, they cautiously eye the bowls placed down for them.
There are three small bowls for each dog in separate wooden holders. Two of the three bowls contain food from established organic brands, and the last is ours, arranged for each dog in a different order.
I’m breathless, watching their mouths go to work.
The first dog is a machine, wolfing down two bowls—until he’s left with the third. He slows down and sniffs forever before taking a bite.
Fucking great. I have a nasty suspicion it’s ours, even if I can’t see the markings well from here with the dogs in the way.
The other two retrievers eat slower, stopping when there’s one bowl left for them. Their tails wave slowly, like they’re unsure but happy because it’s food.
Dogs. Gotta love their simple emotions.
Despite everything, I smile.
But that smile slides right off my face when the two uncertain dogs stop eating after two bites and walk away with the last bowl half full. Meanwhile, the big girl who scoffed down all her food starts hacking.
