Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Exactly.”
My grin is shameless. “I love the sound of that.”
Tell me more.
“This is so invasive,” she continues complaining.
“Invasive?” I repeat, laughing as I adjust my phone, trying to find a comfortable angle. “You answered, didn’t you?”
“Only because I was curious!”
“‘Curious?’” I tilt my phone a bit, angling it so I don’t have to hold my arm awkwardly. “About what?”
“About why you’re calling me at”—she glances at the corner of her screen—“Eleven-thirty at night.”
I shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see your face.”
That gives her pause.
Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, she just looks at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious or if this is just a dumb joke.
It’s not.
I’m being dead seri—
“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, flinching so hard my phone nearly slips out of my hand. “What the hell is that?”
“Uh. My dog.”
“That’s a dog?” I blurt, unable to mask the horror in my voice.
As if on cue, an animal slinks into the frame, walking across her pillow with all the regal confidence of a creature that has no business being that confident. It’s... startling. Hairless except for a tuft of fluff on its head and a scraggly plume of a tail.
Its body is so skinny I can see its ribs, and its big, buggy eyes stare straight into my soul as it gets even more comfortable. It hunkers itself down—like a cat—curling around her head like some kind of ghastly stole.
I swallow hard, trying to process the scene in front of me. “I almost pissed my pants.” Gulp. “That dog is the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, because what the hell am I looking at?
Her jaw drops, and for a split second, she looks like she might actually hang up on me. “Excuse me? He’s beautiful!”
“False. That is the ugliest dog in existence.”
She can’t possibly find that dog adorable.
“First of all,” she says, pointing a finger at the screen, “He’s not ugly. He’s unique.”
I snort.
“That’s what people say when they can’t admit something is ugly.” My large palm runs over my face. “No offense. It’s an overgrown rat with barely any fur.”
She gasps, scandalized, and reaches behind her to cover one of the dog’s floppy, tufted ears with her hand like I’ve just insulted her child and she doesn’t want him to hear it.
“Take that back.”
“I will not,” I say firmly, though my lips twitch as I try not to laugh. “Your dog looks like he belongs in a Tim Burton movie.”
Austin narrows her eyes at me, her fingers gently stroking the dog’s bony back. “You’re lucky Gio is very secure in his identity.”
Come again?
“Wait.” I hold up a hand, my brain short-circuiting. “You named the ugliest dog in existence after me?”
Her lips twitch, the corners threatening to curl into a grin. “Technically, I am not the one who named him.”
“What?” I blink, confused. “What does that mean?”
“I inherited him after my dad died,” she explains, her voice softening just a little. “Gio was his dog and my dad was a fan.”
That gives me pause.
For a second, I feel like the world’s biggest dickhead—but then I glance at the dog again. He’s still staring at me with his bugged-out eyes and his scrawny body, like he knows we’re talking about him.
“Okay.” I rub the back of my neck. “I get that you didn’t name him, but you kept the name. Which means you’re still partially responsible.”
“He’s too old to have his name changed.” Austin gives him a few scratches behind his ugly ears, already laughing. “This is just a happy accident.”
Glad she finds this so funny.
“Happy?” I ask, utterly incredulous. “This is an identity crisis.”
Her dog has my name.
I have the dog’s name.
If my mother were alive, I’d be calling her right now to vent about it.
Austin is laughing so hard, tears are streaming down her face as she says, “I can’t believe this is what’s breaking you. Not the heckling, not the game pressure—this. The dog.”
“That dog is an atrocity,” I can only whisper, still shocked and alarmed.
She gasps, as if I’ve just insulted a family heirloom. “Atrocity? You’re talking about my dad’s beloved dog. Do you have no soul?”
Welp, it’s official: I’m an asshole.
I just insulted her deceased father’s ugly dog.
“It’s not my fault he looks like he crawled out of the Underworld!” I practically shout at my screen, throwing up the hand not holding my cell. “I mean, come on—look at him.”
“Stop it!” she says, though she’s still laughing as she strokes the dog’s back. “You’re going to hurt his feelings.”
“Hurt his feelings?” I repeat, incredulous. “He doesn’t have feelings, Austin. He’s too busy plotting world domination.”
Look at him!
“You’re the worst.” She thinks this is hilarious and nothing can convince me otherwise. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had given me notice that you were going to video call.”