“Serves me right? What’s that supposed to mean?”
She pats the beagle on the head and stands, dusting off her gray workout capris. It’s the first time I get a good look at her and damn, is it weird to say I’d hold her dog poop any time?
She’s gorgeous. Her vibrant, dark red hair frames a heart-shaped face that’s free of makeup. The freckles kissing her nose give her an air of innocence, but the upturn in her turquoise eyes makes her look sexy as hell.
When she crosses her arms over her chest, taking a defensive pose, I can’t help but notice her ample cleavage in a teal tank top and black sports bra.
“I should have let you step in the dog poop,” she declares with hostility.
Well, that’s fucking rude.
Interested to find out what her aversion to me is, I ask, “And why is that?”
She points to the phone in my hand, the hand that’s not holding the sack of dog poop out in front of me. “Operating a mobile device while walking should be illegal. Today it could have been dog poop, tomorrow it could be a baby that fell out of his stroller.”
Okay . . .
“If a baby falls out of his stroller, that’s on the parent, not me.”
“Not if you were aware of your surroundings. A gentleman wouldn’t have his head buried in his phone, but rather he would be prepared to react to any situation around him. If you were aware, with your head up, the baby wouldn’t have never fallen out of his stroller because you would have caught him.”
A gentleman? She’s giving me lessons on how to be a gentleman? Little does she know who she’s talking to.
Although . . .
She’s right. One of the things I preach is being cognizant of your surroundings and to anticipate every situation around you. Damn. She’s schooling me in my best subject.
Feeling defensive, I ask, “So you’re telling me you never operate a mobile phone while walking.”
“Don’t need to. I don’t have one.” The smug look on her face should annoy me, but for some odd reason, it makes me smile.
“You’re telling me in an age of having the world at our fingertips, you don’t have a cell phone?”
“The only phone I carry around is a prepaid flip phone I use for emergencies and calls with my agent.”
Agent, interesting. Assessing her one more time, I take in her appearance, her posture, and the confidence she exudes.
“Actress?” I ask.
“Yes, musical theater.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Really? Broadway?”
Her eyes turn dreamy as she presses her palms together and looks up to the sky. “One day, hopefully.”
Ah, an aspiring Broadway actress. Tough business, but there’s something about this woman that makes me think she’ll get to Broadway. Besides, she’s yet to take the poop bag from me, which takes a lot of I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, an attitude necessary to survive in that world.
“That’s an admirable aspiration. With a lot of hard work and big dreams, you’ll get there.” Cheesy as it may sound, I mean every word. I encourage anyone to reach for what they want in life. Life isn’t worth living if you’re not living it for what you want.
There is a quirk to her lip when she takes in my words. She eyes the poop bag and takes it from me, her fingers brushing against mine briefly and sending a small tingle down my spine. She twists the top of the bag and ties it off in one smooth motion. With a flick of her wrist, barely looking, she tosses the bag into the trash can a few feet away, scoring two poop points.
Damn.
“You’re not so bad.” She assesses me. “Besides being one of those people who can’t seem to take their eyes off their phone to experience the world in front of them, you seem pretty cool.”
“Yeah?” I stick my hands in my shorts pockets and rock back on my heels. “And why’s that?”
“I’ve been in this business long enough to notice the disbelief in peoples’ faces when I tell them what I’m trying to do. You didn’t give it to me. You actually seemed impressed.”
“I am.” I shrug. “It’s not every day you almost step on the feces that belong to a dog with a missing ear whose owner is an aspiring Broadway actress. Almost seems like I hit the jackpot.” I wink.
She points her finger at me knowingly. “Ah, a charmer. I should have guessed. What man wears workout clothes but still has impeccable hair?”
I smirk inwardly. A who has a certain persona to keep up.
“Never know who you’re going to run into on a Sunday in the park.” I nod at her dog. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“General Fitzbum, but he’s not my dog. I’m a dog walker, one of my many jobs.” She’s not the least bit ashamed of having multiple jobs, unlike some other people I’ve met. She almost says it with pride. I like that about her.
“General Fitzbum? Interesting name.” I squat down and scratch him behind his ear. “What happened to his other ear?”
“I was told he was born like that. Mrs. Fitzbum is an author who spends most of her days locked up in her office, so she hired me to offer some fresh air to the general. She thinks he was born with only one ear because he’s her grandfather reincarnated, and her grandfather lost his ear in World War I. Because of that, she wanted to give him an honorable name.” She pauses. “An odd lady, that one. Only drinks orange soda. Says it helps her write.”
I pat the general a few more times and then stand. “Whatever helps, right?” Extending my hand, I say, “I’m Wes, by the way.”
“Wes. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m June. June Lacy.”
“June,” I say, liking how her name rolls off my tongue easily. “Pretty name.”
“Thanks.” She looks at her watch and cringes. “I should be going. It was nice talking to you. Remember to look up, enjoy the world around you, Wes. Breathe it all in. You will always have time to look at your phone. But the world is a fascinating place, so soak it up.” With a wink, she takes off with the general.
Panic sets in.
I don’t want her to leave. Not yet. I was just warming up. I want to get to know her better, I want to hear more about the general, about her multiple jobs, about her aspirations. She can’t leave.
Not when she’s the perfect prospect for my dating project.
What better way to start an article than “We met over dog feces”?
I need to ask her out.
Now.
Fumbling over my words, unable to speak and in a state of sheer panic, I jog after her, only to trip over a crack in the pavement and stumble forward, knocking into her from behind.
So fucking graceful.
We both waver between almost eating pavement and catching our balance. Once steadied, she turns to give me a what the hell are you doing look.
She might be nice, but this girl’s sneers.
Holy hell.
For the first time I can remember, I’m speechless, completely out of my element, with absolutely no control over what happens next . . .
“Food with me!” I blurt out like a robot, sounding like a complete jackass. I promise, I’m so much smoother than this, but with my deadline approaching, my looming desperation, and actually liking this girl, I’ve lost any semblance of cool. Clearing my throat, and trying to straighten myself, I say, “I mean, would you like to have dinner with me?”