Page 97 of Worst in Show

“What time is it anyway?” I ask as we part.

He glances toward the microwave. “Seven thirty.”

“Damn.” I look down at our bare feet. “I should get going. The dogs…”

He nods but doesn’t let me go. “You know, I swear, when I got up for water last night, Cholula was in your window, silently judging me and plotting revenge for taking you away from her.”

“I’m so sure.”

“No, it’s true. She was totally…” He points two fingers to his eyes and then one forward in the universal I’m-watching-you sign. “That dog has it in for me.”

“Maybe sex makes you hallucinate?”

“That would have had to be some fantastic sex, then.” His hands glide down my backside and squeeze. “Mm. Mind-blowing even. Will I see you later?”

I should work tonight. The Etsy store is generating more orders as holiday shopping picks up, and I have sewing to do. But when he looks at me like that—like he needs me—how can I say no? Maybe I can multitask. “Dinner at my place?”

He caresses my face. “Of course.” He still doesn’t let me go.

I laugh. “I’m going to have to get my clothes.”

He kisses my nose. “Uh-huh.”

“Which is easier without a man attached to me.”

“I see.” The scruff on his cheek tickles as he nestles into the crook of my neck.

A giggle bubbles up my chest. “Leo, come on. I have to go.”

He groans and finally lets his arms drop. “Fine.” He takes a reluctant step back. “I’ll note my dissent, though.”

“Noted.”

It still takes me another twenty minutes to get out the door.

We quickly settle into a routine of working during the day and training the dogs or hanging out at night. I’m treated to Leo fresh out of the shower, curled into a ball sleeping at two in the morning, and chasing me around the kitchen with peanut butter on his finger, ready to dab my nose. I don’t have the urge to be anyone but me, and I think he feels the same. Consequently, AlCaponesGhost25 and SingerQueen are on hiatus. Now if I want to tell him something, I just do.

A few days after my birthday, the florist down the street enters Happy Paws with an armful of peach-and-cream roses in a vase.

“Oh, those are darling,” my customer says. “Someone must think you’re very special.”

I don’t have to look at the card to know who that someone is. One glance across the street at the grinning man in the window tells me everything I need to know.

As soon as I’m alone again, I send him a text. Believe it or not, but I’ve never gotten flowers before.

He responds, You must have hung around the wrong people.

The crisp-sweet scent makes me smile every time I pass the counter, and when I go upstairs, I bring the vase with me. I would take it to bed if I could.

Leo knows exactly how to get my attention and hold it. Little by little, my sewing pile grows. I vow to spend my days off catching up, but then he invites me to go ice-skating or to go listen to a band downtown, and it’s so easy to say yes to him. I sleep over at his place as many nights as I sleep at home. My back is thanking me for it, but the dogs are not. In the back of my mind, I know I should slow things down, but I also haven’t felt like this since… I don’t know when.

When more than two-thirds of November has passed, Micki enters the store with my mail in her hand one day and a wrinkle above her nose. “You forgot to bring this in again,” she says. “Ugh, it smells like a funeral home in here.”

I shove the rest of my turkey sandwich into my mouth and take the stack of envelopes and mailers from her. I probably should throw a few of the bouquets Leo’s given me away. Some are definitely past their prime.

I finish chewing. “It’s not that bad.”

“Because you’re living in it. I’m telling you, it’s too much.”

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