To my surprise, he actually listens to me. I nearly trip over the yellow lab as he slows to a complete stop.
“Huh. Maybe I’m, like, the dog whisperer or something,” I muse.
But it only takes a matter of seconds for me to realize I’m no dog whisperer. Instead, what had him come to a stop wasn’t my plea or hold on his leash.
It was his nemesis.
The squirrel.
The second I see the tiny creature a block away, I try to tighten my grip on the leash.
But it’s no use.
He’s already on the attack.
The leash slices through my palm as he rockets forward. One moment I’m in control. The next, the leash is airborne.
“Bark Twain! Heel!” I shout, sprinting after him. “It’s a squirrel! Not a jar of peanut butter!”
The world blurs into storefronts and early-morning diner scents. I dodge a chalkboard sign advertising Tuesday Bingo at the senior center. Thankfully, there are enough obstacles between Bark Twain and the squirrel that I’m able to catch up to him and snag his collar.
“Got you,” I say, feeling victorious.
And that’s when I slam into what feels like a brick wall.
Except it’s not a wall.
It’s a body.
My gaze travels up a broad chest straining beneath a dark suit, to dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass andalong a jawline scruffy enough to inspire questionable thoughts I absolutely do not have time for this morning.
And then I reach his mouth.
Correction.
I reach his scowl.
If there were a competition for biggest scowl, this one would win. Hands down.
Which is why my stomach shouldn’t be fluttering and my heart shouldn’t be skipping a proverbial beat.
Not a real beat.
That would be concerning.
“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry!” I push myself upright as I attempt to keep Bark Twain’s leash firmly in my grasp.
Thankfully, the squirrel realized he was being targeted and scaled a tree.
“If you can’t control your dog,” the man grumbles, flinging spilled coffee from his hands, “maybe you shouldn’t have one.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Taken aback by just how rude he is, even after I apologized. But I refuse to let it get to me. Life’s too short to walk around angry.
Maybe Mr. Grump in a Suit needs to realize that.
“I’ll get you another coffee,” I offer, smiling wide. “My treat.”
“Don’t bother.” He sidesteps me like the sight of me disgusts him.
