Page 25 of Vicious Arrangement
“Asshole,” I mutter to Angus, who keeps pace with me along the path on the West Side Highway running path, “doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
Angus looks up at me and barks, putting on some more speed. I get his point. Speed up and burn off some of the anger.
“And,” I say, dodging a cyclist heading on the wrong side, the wrong way, “I bet if I told him I had to sell my soul to do three double shifts for Mia, at her choosing, just to get out of work to make a wedding I do not want, he wouldn’t care.”
Angus barks again.
“Exactly. Asshole.”
My phone buzzes, interrupting the music that’s playing in my ear, and I hit answer.
“Where are you?” Katie demands.
“I’m on the greenway. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Took the day off. And why are you playing golf?”
Angus shoots me a look, and I mouth I know at him. “Not on a golf course, I’m running. You know, exercise. On the Hudson River Greenway, the running path?”
“Boring.” She huffs. “Where on it?”
“I’m running past Chelsea?—”
“Good. I’ll meet you at yours. We’re going shopping.” And she hangs up.
Angus and I finish our run, then make our way back home.
When I get there, Katie’s hanging out outside my walk up. She ignores me and holds open her arms for Angus, who basically jumps up on her and tries to lick her to death.
“Down, Angus.” He’s a good dog and tries with manners, but sometimes his rambunctiousness gets the better of him, and he likes to show his love.
By sometimes, I mean as often as he can. “Why are we going shopping?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “To get a wedding dress.”
“It’s tomorrow, and I think I’m just going to wear a white top and pants. I have them. I think.”
I open the door, and we traipse in, up to the fourth floor, and I unlock the door.
Angus races in, looks wildly around, spies his water dish, and drinks it clean. Then he whines and looks at Katie, who melts. She gets his bowl and refills it. At his second whine, she opens the jar of treats and feeds him a handful.
“Katie,” I say, “we don’t want him fat.”
“He’s a baby, aren’t you, Angus?”
Angus presses against her, rolling his eyes up in agreement.
I leave them to it and shower and change. Jeans and a top and a lavender hoodie. I almost leave my hair down but I catch my reflection and slick it back.
Screw Mr. Hotness Noah, anyway. Hair up’s more practical. When I’m ready—because I know there’s no way I’m getting out of this—I ask, “Where are we going?”
“I have a list,” she says excitedly, “and this is on me. I earn way more than you, and we can always make him pay me back.”
“So glad you’ve got it all sorted,” I say with a healthy serving of sarcasm.
She ignores me. “There are so many hot and gorgeous wedding dress shops. We don’t have time for bespoke, but a good one will take it in. Something breathtaking, sexy, romantic.”
“No way,” I snort. “Simple. We’ll just get something cheap and white.”
