The Virgin Society Collection

4. A Deadly Game of Frogger

4

A DEADLY GAME OF FROGGER

Milo

As the sun peeks over the horizon, I’m walking up Hudson Street, Trudy trotting happily by my side.

Finally, fucking finally , mornings shine again.

I’m talking to my brother on the phone, updating him on yesterday’s dog-for-dough exchange. “And then I signed the check,” I finish.

Bryan whistles in begrudging admiration. “Damn, that is some slick work on Callie’s part.”

“Yes, please laud my ex’s talents a little more,” I say drily, slowing for Trudy to sniff the step of a locksmith’s shop.

“That’s not what I meant. Some people say they have the worst ex, but you truly do. She is the literal worst. You could write one of those columns for BuzzFeed or HuffPost on being hoodwinked by online dating,” he points out, trying to be helpful. “So other guys can be on the lookout.”

I get where he’s coming from, but no effing way. “That’s a hard pass on telling the world how I was suckered,” I say, shuddering. Dating is a game of Frogger where everyone dies. That’s the only useful piece of advice I’d have to share. “I’m still on a dating info blackout. No writing about it; no reading about it. That shit stresses me out. I’m trying to build my business, not develop an ulcer at age twenty-nine.”

“I hear ya,” he says. “Best to put the whole Callie mess behind you and look forward.”

“That’s the plan.” But focusing on business won’t be easy. I’m out five grand and rent is insane at my combo bike/flower shop in the Village. I’ve got to find a way to market Bikes and Blooms more, especially since competition is getting tougher on both sides of the business, and my flower shop manager is about to go on maternity leave. I have a new hire to take care of too. I really could have used those five big bills for new online ads. But when I tug the leash gently and Trudy turns her sweet face up at me, I try not to worry. “All worth it though for my girl.”

We walk on.

“You and your dog,” Bryan says. “And let’s keep it that way for now, okay?”

He’s preaching to the choir. “Yup, it’s just Trudy and . . .”

My pulse picks up as I catch a glimpse of chestnut hair and a cute figure.

Whoa. Is that who I think it is?

I’m momentarily distracted by yoga pants and fate.

Glitter Gal just crossed the street up ahead, and now she’s walking her tiny blond monster thirty or so feet in front of me. What are the chances? Well, okay, she lives on Grove, so the chances aren’t that slim.

“You still there, Milo?” Bryan asks.

Busted. But in my defense, Glitter Gal is wearing pink yoga pants, and her hair is swept up in a bouncy ponytail.

“Yeah, but yoga pants,” I say stupidly, trying to explain my temporary loss of power.

“English, please.”

I drop my voice; I don’t want all of New York to know I’m the horndog who ogles his neighbor. Just my brother gets that intel. “The woman in front of me is wearing tight pink workout pants. I ran into her yesterday, and a few months before that, and she’s fucking adorable and has these skull earrings I need to return to her. Oh, and Miss Yoga Pants has a dog too,” I babble as I pass an organic dry cleaner, doing my best to stop gawking at the brunette.

I’m failing miserably, though, but my eyes are so damn happy right now.

“Milo,” Bryan growls, like only an older brother can. “Get it together, man. Didn’t you just say you’re not dating?”

I straighten my spine. Yeah, I did. Shit. I need to act like it. “I’m not dating,” I say, defending myself. “I’m staring like the pig I am.”

“If the oink fits.” Then his tone shifts to serious. “You don’t need any more trouble in your life right now.”

I nod like that’ll reinforce the point. He’s so damn right. “Yup. I’ll just return her earrings, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Be careful,” he warns.

“I will,” I say, then hang up.

I’m simply going to be the ombudsman at the Neighborhood Department of Lost and Found. That’s the right thing to do. The earrings are upstairs in my apartment, so once I catch up to her, I’ll get her name and number, and then drop them off later.

Wait. I won’t even get her number. Just her name. I can be good. I’m like Trudy—highly trainable.

She rounds the corner onto Grove Street, and I pick up the pace so I can catch up to her before she reaches her door. I turn onto the same block, Trudy and I race-walking till Glitter Gal is ten, five, three feet in front. “Hey there,” I call out.

She wheels around, arms raised instantly in some sort of self-defense move, leash curled around her wrist. Her dog chirps at me, shouting dog obscenities.

“Whoa,” I say immediately, lifting my hands in surrender.

With a relieved sigh, she lowers her hands. “It’s you . Whew. You just never know.” She blinks, then smiles. Damn, she really is pretty with those freckles and those bright green eyes. Shifting her attention to the little guy, she coos to him, “It’s fine, honey.”

He stops barking.

“Yeah, it’s just . . . me ,” I say, as Trudy whines excitedly, then sniffs at the littler dog as they scope each other out.

The brunette points at my beard. “You’re no longer a leprechaun.”

“Soap. It works wonders.”

Pressing a hand to her chest, she says, “I too love soap.” Then her focus drifts down to my pup. “And you have a dog, I see.”

I beam. “That’s Trudy. She’s all mine, and she’s very, very friendly,” I say, as Trudy makes an honest man of me by going full downward dog mode to say hi to the other pup.

“Mine is StudMuffin,” she says.

“What?” I ask, strangling the word.

“He’s StudMuffin,” she repeats.

Oh, man. I’m an idiot. “You said that yesterday and I thought?—”

Her smile stretches. “You thought I was calling you StudMuffin?”

“Let’s pretend I didn’t even suggest that,” I say.

Of course she didn’t call you Stud Muffin. That’s not a thing people do. Callie did such a number on you that you don’t even know how normal convos with women work.

I choose an easier topic for conversation, rather than segueing straight into “So, I kidnapped your earrings” and appearing even stranger than I already have. Since the pooches are wound up in a sniffing circle, I point to them. “Your dog is less incensed today.”

Glitter Gal’s lips curve up. “He’s only enraged by bikes, skateboards, and scooters. But bikes infuriate him the most.”

“Cabs, buses, and trucks are my enemy when I’m riding a bike, so I do understand having a hit list,” I say.

She laughs. Yes! This is it. The perfect opportunity.

“By the way, do you have skull?—”

A foghorn blares from her phone and I grimace while she winces. That is the most obnoxious sound I’ve ever heard.

“That’s my sister,” she whispers heavily, as if her sister is summoning her to the underworld. “It’s her emergency ring. I have to go.”

“I hope everything’s okay,” I say, but she’s answered the phone and is walking toward her stoop. I try not to eavesdrop, but I can’t help but pick up the tail end of her conversation.

She freezes.

“For real? She said that online?” And she sounds horrified as she continues up the steps like she’s heading to the guillotine. “Are you serious?”

A pause, and her steps falter. “Oh, god. I must have . . . Oh no...I can’t believe I sent that to her.”

Shit, someone is having a bad day.

Maybe the earrings will cheer her up. But I can do one better. I can fix them for her, and perhaps that’ll be the pick-me-up she needs. Then, I’ll leave them on her stoop and be on my way.

I have problems of my own, and none of them will be solved by trying to engineer another flirting session.

I just wish she weren’t so damn flirt-worthy.