Page 7 of The Plus Ones
“Good idea.”
I hear a little snort from the floor and finally notice the little Boston Terrier who’s curled up in a doggy bed, anxiously looking up at me, her tail wagging. “Hey, Daisy,” I say, my voice a little higher than I meant it to be. “Hey girl. I haven’t seen you in a while.” I bend down to pat her on her head. “She looks great! What is she now—twelve?”
“Almost thirteen,” Matt says, his voice cracking a little. “She is great. Slowing down a little, but she’s healthy. Lemme take your coat and grab you a drink.”
I hand him my coat and then continue petting Daisy for as long as she’ll let me. Being able to shower affection on a dog whenever I want to is one luxury that I do not have. A couple of years ago, after a string of bad first dates with the kind of women I had no business dating, I decided to get a dog.
That sounds weird.
I mean, I figured since Matt had basically met and married the love of his life because she had fallen in love-at-first-sight with Daisy, maybe I’d have better luck meeting the right kind of woman if I had the right kind of dog in my life.
So, I got a dog.
I got the wrong kind of dog in my life.
I got a cute dog.
I hit the jackpot with a beautiful little cream-colored Labradoodle rescue.
I drove out to Philadelphia to get him.
I named him Jackpot.
He has his own room in my townhouse.
He has the finest dog beds in every room of my townhouse.
He has the most highly recommended dog-walker in Brooklyn.
He goes to the best dog groomer, gets the best food and chew toys.
And he fucking hates me.
He is literally the worst wingman ever.
Anytime a beautiful woman comes up to us and asks if she can pet him, he barks at her, and I’m pretty sure he’s begging these women to rescue him from me, because he always tries to chase after them when they quickly walk away.
Anytime I take him to a dog park, he tries to go home with someone else.
It’s humiliating.
But I love him anyway.
I’m still determined to make him love me.
A little hate never stopped me from winning anyone over eventually.
And speaking of love and hate—the little boy I love is dragging the woman who is determined to hate me over to where I’m crouched on the floor by Daisy and the Christmas tree.
“Uncle Keat!” Finn yells out as soon as he sees me. He drops Roxy’s hand and runs over to tackle me, and I don’t think I could love this kid any more than I do right now as I’m hugging him and grinning up at Roxy, who has her fists on her hips. She’s frowning. I don’t blame her—I mean, clearly, our godson prefers me over her. That’s gotta hurt.
“How you doin’, buddy? Long time no see.”
Even though they are directly in my eyeline, I do not stare at Roxy’s knee-high black boots. I also do not stare at the shapely thighs in those sheer black tights that taunt me by peeking out between the over-the-knee socks and the hem of her dress.
“Roxy’s gonna show me which present is hers for me. Did you bring me a present?”
“Did I ever. I brought you three presents.”
