Josh
He probably just wants a proper goodbye.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I resisted the urge to throw my phone.
“Ellie,” I said, my tone a little too short, “say goodbye to the dog.”
With far less arguing than I expected, Ellie hopped out of the passenger seat. But she took her sweet-ass time wandering over and scratching his ears.
“We’ve got to go to school,” she told him, standard tween sarcasm dripping from each word, “but if you move, we can throw the tennis ball later. I don’t want my mom to blow a gasket again.”
In response, Wayne turned his head and looked at me.
With a shrug, Ellie got back in the car. But the dog remained where he was, attention still set on me.
“Oh fuck it.” I scurried over and bent down, scratching his ears. “You’re a good boy,” I said. “Now get out of here so I can drive these animals to school.”
I stood, half annoyed and half flattered that he was watching me with a dopey look on his face.
Then, instead of trotting off like I was certain he’d finally do, the damn dog jumped up on his hind legs, standing taller than I was, and licked my face.
I took a step back, screaming, while the kids burst into laughter.
Body tense and hands clenched, I surveyed myself. Dammit. I had a pawprint on my boob and my face was damp with dog drool.
Jesus Christ.
Wayne must have been satisfied after making it to second base because he trotted away happily.
We rolled slowly past the barn and the farmhouse, where, shocker, Josh was standing, beefy arms crossed, watching us, with Wayne sitting happily by his side, like he hadn’t just licked off my mascara.
The joke was on him. I bought the cheap stuff.
My kids lowered their windows to wave, and I slowed further, lowering my own.
Josh’s sleeves were rolled up, and he had that damn worn hat on backward. Bastard.
“Control you dog,” I said.
“He’s just friendly.” His lips quirked a fraction.
I pulled my head back in and examined myself in the rearview mirror to make sure I didn’t have any dog drool left on my face.
“That’s what they say about serial killers,” I quipped.
“He’s easy,” came his response. “Just bribe him with bacon.”
“I’m sorry,” I hissed. “I don’t carry bacon on my person.”
He gave me a solemn nod. “Rookie mistake, Matchstick.”
As the kids laughed hysterically, I rolled up my window, sufficiently humbled for the morning.
As I hustled to my classroom, chugging the last of my now cold coffee, my phone buzzed.
Josh
He likes Julian. Doesn’t happen often. Wayne’s not a people person.
