Shutout howls in evident approval of this plan.
By the time Owen parks, Shutout’s pawing at the windows and whining. The moment the door opens, he bursts out and runs straight to the fenced-in area for big dogs. At the moment, he’s the only large dog present, but there’s a cluster of women on the other side of the fence in the little dog zone, watching their lapdogs chase each other around and yap. The little dogs are fascinated by Shutout even if they can’t get to him, and they line up at the fence to try to get his attention.
The women seem equally fascinated by Owen. A few of them seem to recognize him, but the rest stare at him with blatant thirst in their eyes. And for reasons I’m not interested in unpacking, that bothers me more than it should.
Neither Owen nor Shutout acknowledges them. Owen produces a ratty tennis ball and hucks it out toward the far fenceline. Shutout tears after it, tongue flapping and ears pinned back against his head.
“Okay, we’re at the dog park.” I cross my arms and turn my back on the thirsty housewives. “Want to tell me why you were avoiding me?” Let’s try direct.
Owen swallows hard enough to draw my attention. “Uh. Not really?”
“Owen.” I narrow my eyes.
“I just—” He cuts himself off as Shutout returns. The dog drops his ball at Owen’s feet, and Owen bends over to retrieve it. As he does so, his shirt rides up, revealing a muscular expanse of his back. And that’s a problem I absolutely do not need. There are two little dimples in the skin above his hipbones, the perfect place to press my thumbs—
Get ahold of yourself, Remy. Seriously.I cover my mouth with one hand, suddenly paranoid that I am honest-to-God drooling. Behind me, one of the housewives gasps.
“I’m bad at this,” Owen says. That’s not deflection. That’s honesty.
I pretend that I wasn’t just imagining the warmth of his skin against mine. “Bad at what? Talking like a normal person?”
“Yeah. Kinda.” His jaw works.
I sigh. “Have you tried, I don’t know,notrunning for the hills at the sight of me?”
His mouth quirks, and he gives me a subtle side-eye. “Yeah, I tried it. Didn’t work out, so this is the new plan.”
This time, when Shutout returns, he brings the ball to me. It’s a little… damp, but I pick it up and throw it as hard as I can. Shutout lurches back into an ungainly run.
“Are you going to tell me how to resolve whatever’s going on, then?”
He wrinkles his nose and pretends to think about it. “Eh. Probably not.”
Shutout comes back, moving slower than before, but still wagging his tail madly. It’s Owen’s turn to receive the slobbery ball this time. He whips it out to the farthest part of the field.
“Owen—” I groan.
He turns away from me and stalks toward the gate. For a moment, all I can do is glare at his back.
Shutout limps over to me. He tries to shove the ball into my hand, but I shake my head. I’m already babysitting Owen. I’m not going to babysit his dog, too.
“We only threw the damn ball three times!” I call after Owen.
The Thirst Club shoots me disapproving glares, but Owen just shrugs. “He loves to run, but he’ll go until his hips lock up. This is the compromise. Come on, buddy, let’s go get you a treat!”
Shutout gives up on me and bounds after his master. Judging by the way he’s walking, Owen’s probably right—any more of this, and he’d be limping for the rest of the day.
We follow Owen out past his car toward the nearby shopping center. Shutout whines when Owen insists on tossing the nasty ball into the bed of the truck, but his spirits revive when he sees that our next stop is the PetSmart. He bounds ahead, tongue lolling, no leash in sight.
“You can’t just let him run off!” I scold Owen, and dart after the dog before he has a chance to cause more mayhem.
Shutout can’t get through the doors on his own, and to my relief, Owendoeshave a leash. I plod after them as we wander the aisles, giving Shutout time to pick a new toy. Personally, I think a new tennis ball is in order, but the dog seems more interested in rawhides and chew toys.
Shutout is sniffing the options when a couple rounds the endcap and spots Owen. “Oh, my gosh!” the woman exclaims.
“Holy she—oh, wow, Owen Rourke? Can we get a photo?”
Owen hands me the leash. “Sure.” He glances over his shoulder to wink and mouths the words, “Good PR!” At least he’s trying.
