Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“I mean it,” I say firmly. “I’m ordering you to take it easy.”
“And I will. But I’m not skipping that dinner. No way.”
“Fine.” When it comes to my little sister, I know which fights are worth it and which aren’t. “Let me know as soon as the tests come through.”
“Sure. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get some sleep.”
“Of course. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I hang up and start typing a query in my phone’s search engine. My vet prescribed Sir Ems a pill that prevents tick bites. Should I have provided my sister with something similar?
Turns out, no. Such things only exist for dogs.
* * *
When I step into my apartment, Sir Ems greets me with such excited tail wagging you’d think it’s been a decade since I left.
“I’ve missed you too,” I tell him as I pet him and scratch behind his ears. “Next time, I’m taking you with me. You would’ve helped in case I really did end up having to hunt for survival.”
Randy looks curious at this, so I tell him—but really Sir Ems—about what happened in detail, skipping only the intimate parts pertaining to Kendall.
“Glad you made it out safe,” Randy says. “I’m going to go. Call me if you need my help again.”
“Thanks.” I pay the man, adding a huge tip on top of what I owe.
“Want to go for a walk before we head to bed?” I ask Sir Ems.
He gives me a look that speaks volumes, and in a British accent on top of that. “For a human—even of the Yank variety—you ask the daftest questions. As a dog, the day I refuse a walk is the day you can be sure that evil squirrels have succeeded in poisoning my brain.”
Chapter 27
Kendall
When I wake up and check my phone, there’s a text from Ashton already waiting for me—an image of his dog, followed by:
We’re very excited to see you tonight.
Shit. Should I back out? He’s not my boyfriend—and can’t be—but having him over with his dog confuses things.
Then again, he said he’d make me dinner. And that there would be a massage.
Feeling like a weak-willed ninny, I reply that I’m also excited… to see Sir Ems.
There.
I eat breakfast and log in to take care of my secret gig. I now need it more than ever to pay my bills. After a trip to the post office, I sit myself in front of the computer and work on VersaWear—until someone rings my doorbell.
What?
I check the time.
Wow. It’s already six in the evening. I got so absorbed in my work that I missed lunch, and most of the day.
“Who is it?” I ask when I get to the door.
There’s a cheerful, yippy woof outside the door.
I grin. “Sir Ems, is that you?”
“Indeed, gentle lady,” Ashton says in a high-pitched voice with a British accent. “’Tis I, Sir Eats-Minced-Meat-a-Lot, at your service. Open posthaste, before my human and I succumb to the evil machinations of the squirrel menace.”
I open the door, and my ovaries get smashed by Ashton’s handsomeness—and the fact that he’s holding a bouquet of roses.
Holy crap. I must’ve grown desensitized to his hotness after spending so much time together on the island, but after this short break, the full force of his beauty is hitting me like a freight train. That golden hair, that athletic physique, those gorgeously chiseled features…
“Here.” He hands me the flowers and plants a kiss on my lips, one that makes my blood pressure spike and my panties dampen.
A small whine brings my attention to the dog, and I look down, cocking my head.
“Is he smiling?” I ask Ashton.
“It’s a quirk of this breed,” he answers. “And sure, I choose to think that he’s smiling.”
Sir Ems wags his tail as if to confirm his cheerful mood.
“Well,” I say. “Come in.”
I was talking to Ashton, of course, but Sir Ems is the first to react: he trots regally inside, sniffing everything on his way.
“He won’t cause mischief,” Ashton says, noticing my worried expression.
A concerned bark rings out from the living room, contradicting Ashton’s words.
Frowning, Ashton goes in—and starts cracking up.
I follow them and see why.
Sir Ems is barking at the sousaphone on display.
“Buddy, that’s just a musical instrument,” Ashton says soothingly.
Sir Ems pauses the barking but looks at the sousaphone distrustfully and then growls at it.
“Did you just get upset at your own refection?” Ashton asks.
Sir Ems looks at the shiny sousaphone again, then at his human, then back at the sousaphone, then back at Ashton.
Finally, the hackles on the back of the dog’s neck relax, and the smile-like expression comes back, as does the tail wag.
Just then, someone rings the doorbell, and Sir Ems runs over to the door, barking up another storm.
I glance at Ashton. “No mischief?”
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
“It’s fine. I kind of like it.” Though I considered myself as more of a dog person, that was all theory. Now I know for a fact that I like dogs. Or at least corgis.