Page 108 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Ridiculous.

Ocean.

Convertible.

Friends.

I get my thoughts back on track, releasing the tension and closing my eyes again. Reaching out, it almost feels possible to touch the water again, surf at sunrise, or even sit in solitude after a long day.

Agh!

My stomach tenses as my eyes fly open. Reflexively, my head digs deeper into the grass as I’m met with two dark, round eyes surrounded by a lot of hair and a yap. “Um, what are you doing, dog?”

Perfectly content to stand on top of me, he pants and then sits, comfortable in his lack of training. Not sure if he’ll bite me, I look to the side. Is anyone looking for this dog? It barks again, not scaring anyone, least of all, me.

“What? What do you want?” I look around, wondering where his owner is. “Where’d you come from?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes as I continue lying on the ground like an idiot. There’s no way one of these prissy dogs would survive on the streets. Its white, brown, and black coat is too clean to make me think this dog is anything less than pampered on the daily.

Since it’s staring at me like I have a pocket full of treats, I hold my hands up. “I have nothing for you. Now scram.”

“Hey!”

I turn and see a woman in a baggy sweater flapping against her sides and a skirt pressed to her shapely legs as the excessive fabric flows behind her. Arms covered in the chunky knit material flail in the air, and I may be wrong, but it appears she’s holding a leash in her hand. “Hey! Grab the dog. Please?—”

Her words are swept away with the wind, causing me to miss the last part. The dog woofs again, though, and I put two and two together, swiftly taking hold of him. His tail wags, and then he leans in to lick my face. His breath stinks.

Another good washing is in order to rid the smell of saliva from my face. Great, another delay in my day.

Since the dog seems to consider us friends now, I sit up and then stand, tucking the dog under my arm.

The woman slows her pace as she approaches. She may be out of breath, but relief brings a smile to her face. Dipping forward, she squeezes her side and then holds up a finger. “I need a sec.”

Despite the body she’s trying to hide under those baggy clothes and her white Converse, I think it’s safe to assume she’s not a runner. I point at the dog. “Is this your dog?”

“Yes,” she says through huffing breaths. Finally standing upright, she smiles at the dog. “Oh my God, you saved me.” She tickles the dog’s little head and goes nose to nose with him to whisper, “Who’s a little rascal? You are.”

She’s quite stunning. Her green eyes with a hint of brown are bright with happiness (so what if it’s because of the dog. I’m not threatened by the fuzzball). Her dark blond hair is twisted on top of her head with wild strands loosened from the run, and her lips have a gentle covering of pink that matches her heated cheeks.

She reaches for the dog, but I should really ask a few questions and keep him firmly anchored to my side. “Hi,” I start, wiggling my nose in hopes of evading the stench of the animal. At this rate, I’ll be taking another shower when I get home.

“Hi.” She grins and then wraps her hands around the fuzzball’s body, but when I don’t release it, she asks, “Are you going to give the dog back?”

“How do I know it’s your dog?”

Her eyebrows practically hit her hairline before her eyes narrow, and her gaze slices through the air between us. Holding up the red leash and collar, she says, “Obviously, it’s my dog.”

“What’s its name?”

“Are you really doing this?”

“If it were your dog, wouldn’t you want me to ask a few questions before handing it over to any crazy person who tried to steal it?”

Her head tilts, annoyance pursing her lips to the side. “It is my dog. And his name is Rascal.”

Looking down at the dog, I grin. The name is fitting, for sure. “Hi, Rascal.”

Little dog slobber coats my chin, so I angle him away from me. His back paws scratch against my side, giving him leverage to lunge forward. The woman adds, “See? Now may I have the dog?”

“I’m not sure that’s proof it’s your dog since he seems to like me just as much. I don’t want to give Rascal to any old person.”

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