“Ouch. Cheap shot.”
But he’s not wrong.
I haven’t gone on a real date since junior year, when I swapped numbers with a cute guy in the book aisle at Target because he was wearing a Ghostface T-shirt and said he liked girls who “don’t scare easy.” We went out once. He screamed during a silly jump scare in the newJurassic Parkmovie, and I laughed at him.
I never saw him again.
It’s not that no one ever asks me out. I just haven’t met many guys I actually want to say yes to.
Unbidden, my gaze shifts to Hayes’s gorgeous face.
Well… anyoneavailable.
“Besides,” he adds, teasing now, “everyone knows dogs are man’s best friend—not woman’s.”
“Wow. That’s deeply sexist.” I place a hand over my heart, mock-offended. “I don’t know if I can stay best friends with a rampantly misogynistic man.”
I squint at him, pretending to think itover.
“I mean, maybe it’s time I start looking for replacements. Someone who actually respects women. Someone who’s an ally. Someone who?—”
“Alright, just relax, Gloria Steinem.” He lifts both hands in surrender. “Truth is, it’s been kind of lonely with my parents gone. My apartment’s nice, but weirdly quiet without a roommate.” His tone shifts, the edges softening just enough to catch me off guard. “I was thinking… a dog might be good company.”
A pang of sympathy pulls at my chest. I knew he missed his parents, but hearing him actually admit it out loud hits different, like maybe it’s even harder for him than I realized.
“You can come over for dinner anytime,” I say. “You know my mom loves you. You’re basically the son she wishes she had.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes quickly flicking away. “It’s okay. I’m sure my folks will be back soon.”
I nod, glancing back down at the dog, his tail thumping lazily against the stone driveway. His big, blocky head tilts, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he blinks up at me with trusting eyes.
“I’m sorry about your parents, but you know how much I’ve always wanted a dog—this might be my only shot.” A smile tugs at my lips. “Besides, I’m not exactly sure you’re puppy-parent material.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, please,” I say. “Don’t you remember what happened to Mr. Scramble?”
Back in Home Ec class freshman year, we had to co-parent a raw egg like it was a real baby. It’dseemed like an easy enough project until Hayes dropped our egg and broke it while he’d been busy flirting with Holly Clark, the captain of the dance team. It was the first—and only—C grade I ever got in high school.
“You’re kidding, right?” He groans loudly. “I was fourteen! Will you ever let that die?”
“Oh, like you let Mr. Scramble die?” I ask, feigning outrage. “He was our egg-baby, Hayes! Our precious little egg-son. And youmurderedhim!”
Hayes’s mouth opens like he’s going to argue, but nothing comes out. For a second, he just studies me. And I can see it—the exact moment the wheels start turning. He exhales, then flashes a smile that’s a little too smooth.
“Okay, fair enough,” he says. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we let the dog decide? Twenty bucks says he picks me.”
I grin savagely. “You’re on.”
We both take a few steps back until we’re spread out across the courtyard.
“Come here, sweet boy,” I call gently to the dog while Hayes shouts from the other end of the drive.
The dog freezes, gaze flicking between us like he’s torn. Then, slowly, he starts toward me. Victory stirs in my chest, and I can tell the dog is as good as mine.
But then, just before he reaches me, Hayes mutters something unintelligible under his breath and claps his hands together, loud as a thunderbolt.
The dog stops. Then pivots.
