Page 7 of Embers of You
His back is to me as he gets to work, and I continue to watch the way his muscles bunch along his back as he cleans the truck. His shirt is tight against his body, and it makes me wish it could disappear. I could tell when he came up to me, he’s a big guy. He has to be about six foot two. He’s muscular, but not in a bodybuilder way, more like his strength is derived from hard labor.
Jameson’s arms stretch up as he continues to work on the truck, and I feel like I’m in a trance. Hypnotized. I can’t stop watching the way his body is moving, and imagining how it would move against mine.
A loud bark knocks me out of my daydream of wandering hands, sweaty bodies, and loud moans. I remember where I am,and the little dog on my table is just looking up at me. The bark was courtesy of Jerry Lee, who has now flown into this room with me.
“You wanted to come stare at that hot guy, Jameson, too?” I ask him. He just barks in response.
As much as I try to focus on grooming the dogs on my schedule, I can’t go more than a minute before I’m staring out the window again. Eventually they’re done cleaning the truck, and I watch as Jameson climbs back inside to put the truck back inside the station.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I’m not looking for anything right now. I’m really not. Getting involved with a man at this point in my life isn’t on my list of priorities, especially while I’m still reeling from everything that happened back home. I don’t need to become involved with anyone and create any more complications if I could ever bring myself to trust someone else. No, I’m more than content being on my own with just my dog.
That’s also how I know I couldn’t be friends with Jameson. He’s too good looking. Seemingly too nice, which is probably just an act. That’s been my experience, anyway. They’re always nice in the beginning.
My distraction is finally gone, and I can finally focus back on my actual job. I’m finishing up the haircut on the Shih Tzu when the front door opens.
Jerry Lee flies out to return to his perch on the cage.
“Shut up, Vern!”
I smother my laughter. I’m sure at some point that might get annoying, but as of right now it’s pretty funny.
After I set the Shih Tzu down, I go to greet the person who just came in. It’s a woman, probably in her early thirties. She’s pretty; blonde hair, blue eyes. She looks like someone who I would’ve expected to see coming into the salon back in L.A. She looks like she’s done up enough to walk down the red carpet at a fancy event, not Main Street in this small town.
“Hey, how can I help you?” I ask, wiping my hands down my jeans, self-conscious at how much of a mess I look compared to this woman.
“Oh, hi. Where’s Trish?” she asks, giving me a once over, and I stand taller because I refuse to let her think she’s going to intimidate me.
“She’s bathing a dog right now; I can help you.”
“Are you new?”
“Here? Yes. To dog grooming? No.”
“Hm.” She seems to consider me for a moment. “Fine. Have you ever groomed an Australian Goldendoodle before?”
It physically pains me to hold back the eye roll I want to let loose. Australian Goldendoodles are not a real breed. They’re marketed as “mini” goldendoodles, and breeders charge obscenely for them. They’re a mutt. Which is fine, I have nothing against mixed breeds. But I do have something against lying breeders. In my experience, the people that believe those breeders and act like they’re better than everyone else even though their dog is the same as a mix from the shelter. It’s frustrating.
“Yes, I’ve groomed Goldendoodles before.” I try to keep the bite out of my tone, but it’s getting harder by the second.
“Okay, but my breeder has very specific instructions on how to care for these dogs, and I think it should be Trish…no offense.”
I smile wider, and I probably look crazed. “I’m sure I can handle it, and if I can’t then I won’t touch your dog again.”
She purses her lips before reluctantly saying, “Fine.”
“What’s your name and phone number so I can call you when she’s done?”
“Her name is Daisy, and mine is Mallory.” She rattles off her phone number so fast I struggle to write it down. I hope Trish actually knows it because I’m not confident that I gathered it correctly.
“Not too short, I just want a puppy cut,” she says, and I feel my eye twitch.
A puppy cut is not a specific haircut. It just means the same length all over, but it could be a puppy cut shaved bald or half an inch all over. That. Means. Nothing.
“So just a trim all over?” I ask, widening my smile to painful levels.
“Yeah, a puppy cut.”
“Okay, I’ll call you when she’s all finished.”
