Chapter One #3
“What about a compromise? Gunner for the streets, Noodles at home. Like a stage name.”
Crowbar chuckled. “You giving my dog a stage name?”
“I’m giving her options. Everyone deserves options.”
I steered the cart toward the register, the squeaky wheel screaming its way across the linoleum like a wounded bird.
The family from the hamster aisle had left, along with the teenagers who’d stood by the kitten window.
It was just us, General Patton, and forty fish tanks full of silent witnesses.
I slid behind the register and started scanning items, the beep of the barcode reader filling the silence between us. He set Gunner—I refused to call her that in my head, she was Noodles now—on the counter, where she immediately woke up, sneezed, and tried to eat a pen.
“So.” I scanned the kibble bag, which required me to lift it, which required muscles I did not possess. I dragged it across the scanner instead, the barcode reader catching it on the third pass. “First dog?”
“Nah.” He pulled the pen away from Noodles before she swallowed the cap. “Had one when I was a kid. Mutt named Tank.”
“Tank and Gunner. You have a naming theme.”
“Didn’t name Tank. My old man did.”
“And you’re continuing the legacy of aggressive nouns. Heartwarming.”
The crate box wouldn’t scan. I flipped it over, searching for the barcode, and found it hidden under a flap that had been glued shut by someone who clearly hated retail workers.
I picked at the edge with my fingernail.
“Any other pets? Cat? Iguana? Emotional support tarantula?”
“No.”
“Smart. Tarantulas are terrible conversationalists.” The flap came loose, and I scanned the box. The register beeped approvingly. “That’ll be $3,247.63.”
He pulled out a wallet that was attached to his belt by a chain. An actual chain. Like he’d time-traveled from a decade where that was a viable fashion choice. I watched him count out cash—mostly fifties—and slide the stack across the counter with two fingers.
His knuckles were scarred, the skin pale and slightly raised over each joint. Fighter’s hands. I’d seen enough bruised knuckles in my life to recognize the pattern, though the context had been less leather-and-motorcycles and more drunk-stepdad-and-drywall.
I made change, then pulled the puppies blue folder from under the counter, tucked in a spot Deb had shown me earlier.
Inside were registration papers for Noodles. She was a purebred. Oh, thank god. That explained the total. I thought I’d scanned the crate forty-seven times.
Once I had her papers spread across the counter, I read what I could quickly glean so I could sound like a professional instead of a fraud.
“Oh, fantastic,” I said, picking up the papers on the bottom and shaking them out like I was about to give a speech. “She comes with her very own shot records. That was very responsible of whoever filled it out.”
“That would be the vet, princess.”
I flapped a hand at him. “You say that like I didn’t already know. Clearly it was her doctor. Who else would send them?” I bagged everything except the large items. Then I slipped Noddle’s folder into a large Manila envelope and bent the clasps to seal it shut.
“Receipt?” I handed him his change. My voice was completely normal, not at all affected by the texture of his palm against my fingertips.
“Nah.” He pocketed the change and tucked his wallet away. Noodles had migrated to the edge of the counter and was attempting to chew the credit card reader. I gently redirected her toward a chew toy, and she latched onto the rubber mailman with the ferocity of a creature three times her size.
“She’s got good instincts,” I said. “Nobody likes the mailman.”
That got a real smile. Not the smirk or the twitch of his lips, but an actual grin that crinkled the corners of Crowbar’s eyes, smoothing out the hard angles of his handsome face. My stomach did the flip thing again, harder this time, making me grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
“Need help loading?” The question was automatic. Deb had gone over customer service scripts this morning like a drill sergeant.
“I got it.” Crowbar loaded the bags into one arm, tucked the crate box under the other, and balanced Noodles against his chest, all without dropping the toothpick. The man had seemingly more arms than humanly possible.
He turned to leave, and I thought that was it. Customer served, puppy sold, interaction over. I’d go back to restocking cat litter and trying not to be insulted by a parrot.
But he stopped at the door. Turned his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder, those blue eyes catching the light from the kitten window.
“Spencer.”
My name. Crowbar had read my name tag. He’d looked right at it when he walked in. But hearing it in that low, deep voice, like he was caressing the syllables, made my cock twitch.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the help.” The toothpick rolled. “Indoor person.”
Then he was gone, the bell chiming behind him. I stood at the register with my lips slightly parted and my heart fluttering.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Biker,” I said with a dreamy sigh.