Page 13 of Inked Adonis

I second-guess myself the moment the text message whooshes away into the ether. Do I sound witty or is this trying too hard? Is Samuil sitting in his corner office right now, cringing at how desperate I am?

My phone pings again.

SAMUIL:Jesus, what’s wrong with that dog?

I burst out laughing. In my opinion, the fostered mutt is cute as a button, but not everyone finds her overbite and missing eye as charming as I do.

NOVA:Trixie doesn’t subscribe to conventional standards of beauty. That’s kind of what I like about her. She’s authentic.

Against my better judgment, I type out a second message before he can even respond.

NOVA:She’s sweet and loving and she never humps strangers on park benches even if she’s attracted to them. Doesn’t that count for something?

Cue the double-text anxiety.That was too far. You’re a dead fish, Nova. You’re a lifeless, scaly, wet, gasping little?—

SAMUIL:I don’t know. There’s something to be said for a woman who goes after what she wants.

My heart skips a beat, and I almost run into a passing jogger. I end up parking my ass on a bench so I can safely disappear into my phone.

NOVA:Trixie is the shy type. Very demure.

SAMUIL:As interesting and “authentic” as Trixie is, I’m more interested in learning about the woman walking her.

I chew the inside of my cheek so hard I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

NOVA:What would you like to know about me?

SAMUIL:Is pulling giant dogs off innocent bystanders your full-time profession, or is there something else you do?

NOVA:Stopping dog-on-human assault is just a side project I’m passionate about. But as of two months ago, dog-walking is my full-time profession.

SAMUIL:Why did you make the switch?

Something in his tone—even through text—makes me pause. It’s not the usual judgment I get when I tell people I walk dogs for a living. I would’ve thought he’d be too busy counting his billions or whatever the fuck billionaires do all day to notice me. But this is... curiosity. Genuine interest.

Maybe that’s why I type out the truth instead of my usual deflection.

NOVA:Because I love animals. Dogs in particular. What you see is what you get and I appreciate that. People will lie, hurt, judge, and betray, but a dog will never pretend to be something it’s not.

I steered our banter into accidentally deep waters in less than ten messages. That has to be a new personal record for speed at which I can ruin the vibe.

But Samuil doesn’t seem to mind.

SAMUIL:You make a good point. Animals are simple.

My fingers brush against the raised scar on my wrist, silver-white and smooth after all these years. A permanent reminder that nothing in life is simple.

NOVA:I wouldn’t say that. But I would say they’re straightforward. The dogs who bark the loudest and bite the hardest are the ones who have been hurt the most.

SAMUIL:Speaking from experience?

NOVA:Something like that.

SAMUIL:Maybe one day you’ll tell me about it. Over drinks, preferably.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Even Trixie has abandoned her sniffing to stare up at me with her head cocked to the side. It’s almost as though she can sense the change that’s taking place inside me.

Cautious optimism is a whole new ballgame—though the dash of bone-deep fear is still painfully familiar.

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