Page 9 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

I open the door to kennel C and Popeye walks out without even glancing at me. He’s a tall dog with a brindle coat.

“Whoa.” Dylan watches Popeye with interest. “That is the burliest dog I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah.” I sigh and grab the broom. “He was rescued from a dog fighting circuit. He’s got some issues. It’s super sad.”

Popeye walks over to kennel F, the only other door in the row with a red tag, lifts his leg, and pees on the door.

Dylan raises his brows and barks out a laugh. “No way! He knows that dog’s a jerk too?”

I chuckle as I head into Popeye’s kennel. “Yeah, I mean dogs are all about pecking order. Pack mentality. Stuff like that. You can’t be an alpha if you don’t establish your dominance.”

For some reason, I think of my mom and grandma arguing. Is that what they’re doing? Trying to establish dominance? Or do they just have behavioral issues that keep them from getting along with others like Popeye?

I’m a little irritated that Dylan isn’t waiting with the mop bucket ready to follow my sweeping. I consider telling him to mop. I imagine myself taking charge and dictating, in no uncertain terms, what his responsibility is. But I hate confrontation, so I meekly mop Popeye’s kennel too. When I finish, I step out to call the dog in. I’m still feeling salty and open my mouth to say something sarcastic, but I freeze. Dylan is scratching behind Popeye’s ears and the dog is actually smiling. It’s hard to place dogs with behavior issues, so Popeye has been at the kennel for a couple of months already. And to my knowledge, he has never let anyone pet him.

Dylan looks up at me with a smile. “Cool dog!”

“Yeah, he is.” I swallow a lump of fear when Dylan raises his other hand to the dog’s head to scratch both sides at once. I forgot to warn Dylan that Popeye can act defensively with sudden movements. When Popeye leans his head into Dylan’s hand, a surprised gasp escapes me.

“What?” Dylan freezes. “Should I not be doing this?”

Popeye nudges Dylan’s hand with his big square nose and the boy’s face transforms as pleasure shapes his mouth into a grin. “Oh, you want more, do you?”

I’m not sure what is more captivating, the burly dog turning into a big softy, or the bad boy getting all mushy. When Dylan kneels in front of Popeye, they’re eye-to-eye, and the dog licks his face. Dylan laughs and rubs the dog’s nose.

“Gross, you big brute.”

I don’t have the heart to interrupt. I’m not aware of Popeye having received—or accepted—this kind of attention since he came to the shelter. And I admit, there is something equally compelling about the bad boy of Oak Grove High grinning like a five-year-old girl who just received a pony for her birthday. He looks like a completely different guy with his soft edges and bright eyes.

I blink.

He's really good-looking.

I mean, everybody knows it, including himself, but he’s usually hard lines and a guarded expression. An untouchable. Right now, his face is open, and he looks entirely approachable. His hair even looks extra floppy. More like Prince Eric's hair from The Little Mermaid, instead of Danny Zuko from Grease.

“What?” Dylan asks again.

I realize I’ve been staring. I swipe my mouth with my sleeve to make sure there’s no drool and clear my throat. “I hate to put him back, but we do need to keep going.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dylan pops up and walks toward the kennel, Popeye strolling beside him. He’s walking like he’s the expert dog handler. So annoying.

Dylan passes close enough for me to get a whiff of pine and leather. I can’t stop myself from watching his progress. His body has a natural languidness that gives him the air of being super relaxed. It lures me in while simultaneously ticking me off.

His hand trails along Popeye’s back as the dog strolls into the kennel. Again, he seems reluctant to shut the door. But when he turns toward me, all his hard, cold angles are back in place. Whatever magic Popeye cast on Dylan has worn off.

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