Page 3 of Worst in Show

I blink and read it again. And again.

“Well, fuck me,” I mutter as the implication sinks in.

We’ve got competition.

Because it’s a Tuesday and school is in session, the park and Riverwalk aren’t crowded. There are a few other dog walkers out, a couple of moms with rambunctious toddlers, and a group of teens who surely should be in a classroom right now, but that’s it. The benches overlooking the water where I like to sit are occupied by an older couple and a guy with a pretty Australian shepherd, so my posse and I loop back at a slow pace. The sun warms my shoulders and lights up the leaves above us in a spectacular way, and I’m deep in thought over this morning’s complication when we pass the playground, not paying attention. One second is all it takes, and Cholula has escaped.

A moment later, a piercing shriek carries through the air. “My ice cream! My ice cream! The monster took it!”

Cholula comes shooting out from beneath the play structure with a waffle cone the size of her head lodged in her jaws. She’s pursued by one of the little boys, but his mom grabs his arm before he can take off after her.

Crap. “Cholula! Bad dog!” With Boris’s leash in one hand and Cap’s in the other, I stumble across the lawn after Cho, and suddenly there’s a fourth dog in the mix. Where the heck did it come from?

“Mom, is it a gremlin?” the kid cries behind me.

I didn’t know kids still knew what gremlins were, but I suppose I can’t fault anyone for mistaking Cholula for one. I should have been paying better attention, but that Canine King sign has thrown off my whole morning. Besides, why are kids eating ice cream at the park at nine thirty? Isn’t that poor parenting? Cho did the kid a favor.

“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder to the mom, who’s trying to console her deprived little one.

Cholula and the other dog are chasing each other back and forth, having the time of their lives while I make my way toward the water. Boris is our weakest link, and no matter how I coax, we make slow progress.

“Tilly, here!”

The guy I saw on the bench earlier, presumably the owner of the Aussie playing tag with Cho, is closer to the dogs, and even in my stressed-out state, my dormant lady parts give a standing ovation at the way his gray fitted button-down hugs his arms. He must be new to the area.

“It that thing yours?” he calls to me in a deep baritone. His words have edges that knock me about. No doubt there’s a glower behind those mirrored Ray-Bans.

Cholula stops for a moment and swings her head in his direction as if she understands the implication perfectly, but then the Aussie circles her and the two are off again. Cholula’s leash trails her on the ground like a happy snake.

“Oh, come on,” hot, snide guy says with exasperation. “Tilly, here!”

I finally reach their part of the park. “Seems like she’s got better things to do.” I smile. “Don’t worry, Cholula only has another few minutes in her. They’ll be back.”

“You know, you really should keep your dogs in check.” His shapely mouth puckers as he lets out a loud whistle.

“Excuse me?”

He gestures impatiently toward the frolicking dogs. “This is totally out of character for Tilly.”

Ah, so he’s one of those people. The deflecting kind. I purse my lips. “Maybe if you’d kept her on a leash…”

“Like I said, she always stays by me.”

“Clearly not always.”

This guy is getting under my skin. The air around him practically vibrates with impatience, and what is that scent stinging my nostrils? Is that…? Yep, I know Au de Snob when I smell it. From the cut of his clothes to the Patek on his wrist, I’d bet a million bucks he and his precious Tilly usually run in different circles. So what the heck is he doing here?

I sneak another sideways glance at hair the rich summery hue of ripe wheat. The ugly contents of his soul certainly got wrapped in shiny paper.

Cap tugs on his leash, wanting to join the play, but I keep it in a firm grasp. Boris has melted into his usual pile on the ground. Time to end this. “Cho-lu-la!” I try again. “Treat!”

“That’s great—reward bad behavior,” the guy mutters under his breath.

I spin toward him, my hands on my hips. “Do you want the dogs to come back or not?”

His face briefly goes blank as if he wasn’t expecting the bite in my voice, and he takes a step back, palms forward. Unfortunately, that’s where Boris is, and before I have time to yell Timber, the guy’s majestic arms flail like the rotor blades of a runaway chopper, and he goes down.

He lets out an unintelligible shout on his way to the ground, and that, finally, is what gets the dogs’ attention. Cholula and Tilly come bounding back, no doubt thinking they’ve got a new playmate, and cover him with kisses on the ground.

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