Page 61 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Only because I was curious!”

“‘Curious?’” I tilt my phone a bit, angling it so I don’t have to hold my arm awkwardly. “About what?”

“About why you’re calling me at”—she glances at the corner of her screen—“Eleven-thirty at night.”

I shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see your face.”

That gives her pause.

Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, she just looks at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious or if this is just a dumb joke.

It’s not.

I’m being dead seri?—

“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, flinching so hard my phone nearly slips out of my hand. “What the hell is that?”

“Uh. Mydog.”

“That’s a dog?” I blurt, unable to mask the horror in my voice.

As if on cue, an animal slinks into the frame, walking across her pillow with all the regal confidence of a creature that has no business being that confident. It’s... startling. Hairless except for a tuft of fluff on its head and a scraggly plume of a tail.

Its body is so skinny I can see its ribs, and its big, buggy eyes stare straight into my soul as it gets even more comfortable. It hunkers itself down—like a cat—curling around her head like some kind of ghastly stole.

I swallow hard, trying to process the scene in front of me. “Ialmost pissed my pants.” Gulp. “That dog is the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” I say,because what the hell am I looking at?

Her jaw drops, and for a split second, she looks like she might actually hang up on me. “Excuse me? He’s beautiful!”

“False. That is the ugliest dog in existence.”

She can’t possibly find that dog adorable.

“First of all,” she says, pointing a finger at the screen, “He’s not ugly. He’s unique.”

I snort.

“That’s what people say when they can’t admit something is ugly.” My large palm runs over my face. “No offense. It’s an overgrown rat with barely any fur.”

She gasps, scandalized, and reaches behind her to cover one of the dog’s floppy, tufted ears with her hand like I’ve just insulted her child and she doesn’t want him to hear it.

“Take that back.”

“I will not,” I say firmly, though my lips twitch as I try not to laugh. “Your dog looks like he belongs in a Tim Burton movie.”

Austin narrows her eyes at me, her fingers gently stroking the dog’s bony back. “You’re lucky Gio is very secure in his identity.”

Come again?

“Wait.” I hold up a hand, my brain short-circuiting. “You named the ugliest dog in existence afterme?”

Her lips twitch, the corners threatening to curl into a grin. “Technically, I am not the one who named him.”

“What?” I blink, confused. “What does that mean?”

“I inherited him after my dad died,” she explains, her voice softening just a little. “Gio washisdog and my dad was a fan.”

That gives me pause.

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