Chapter 7 #3
Warmth spreads through my chest. Normally someone speaking babytalk to their pet would be a hard pass, but there’s something about the way she does it, as though helping this dog find a loving home is a big fuck you to the world. And that’s something I can get behind.
“You should start a social media account for him. Take all the cute photos and videos you’ll inevitably take of him, and post them there.
Build up a little following, and then when he’s ready for adoption I bet tons of people will want him.
They’ll be tagging friends left and right, being like ‘this is the perfect dog for you!’”
She gives me a small but hopeful smile. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
“Thanks. I do know a thing or two about social media. But I’ll leave this to the expert.”
“You want to help?” she asks. “I can create the account and give you the password so you can post photos too.”
“I’m not really the kind of guy to sit around taking pictures of a dog, but thanks for the offer.”
She finally picks up her first taco and takes a bite, and a moan escapes her mouth while her eyes roll back in her head.
I wonder if that’s the same look and sound she makes when she comes?
Before I even realize what’s happening, I’m envisioning my face between her legs and the sounds I could draw out of her.
The thought has my body reacting in all the appropriate ways, which are so inappropriate given the circumstances.
I set my plate across my thighs to cover the growing bulge between them, but the plate won’t sit straight, so I have to balance it with my hand.
Sierra gives me a look, probably wondering why I practically threw my plate onto my lap. “These are amazing.”
“You have quite the reaction to my cooking.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I shrug, because even though I want to make a smart-ass comment about her orgasmic response to my food, I don’t want to risk her storming off like she so often does because then she’d wake the dog up.
“I like that you enjoy the food I make you.”
We sit in companionable silence while she finishes two of her three tacos. Then she sets her plate on the floor next to her and says, “I ate those too fast. I need to slow down.”
She tilts her head back against the cabinet and closes her eyes for a second.
In the time it takes for me to look at her and notice how her eyebrows are a light brown, a couple shades darker than her hair, the puppy has not only woken up, but has bounded off Sierra’s lap and gotten ahold of her remaining taco.
He whips his head back and forth, like it’s a toy he’s playing with, and the contents of the taco start flying all over the kitchen.
Before I even have time to reach across Sierra and grab his collar, there are drops of the red adobo sauce and a smear of guacamole on the cabinets, chicken and lettuce mixed with sour cream coat the floor under the dog’s paws, and Sierra has both guacamole and sour cream on her face and half the contents of the taco in her lap.
Even my arm wasn’t spared from the chicken taco massacre, despite Sierra being between the dog and me.
Once I’ve got him by the collar, he immediately sits, hanging his head like he knows he did something wrong. “Winston,” Sierra coos, “you bad boy.” She takes the empty tortilla out of his mouth.
“You can’t talk to him like he’s a good boy when he’s done something wrong.”
“What do you mean? I said he was a bad boy.”
“He doesn’t speak English.” My voice comes out sounding as exasperated as I feel.
She obviously knows nothing about dogs. “You have to use a tone of voice appropriate to his actions. When he’s been bad, you need to be firm and reprimand him.
You can’t coddle him and expect him to behave, you have to be the alpha in this relationship, or he will be. Try again.”
She looks at me like she wants to smack me, but instead turns toward the dog. “Winston,” she says, the word like a sharp, reprimanding crack. “Bad!”
He sinks down to the ground and puts his head between his front paws, looking up at her with the saddest puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen.
I press my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing, and she turns her head away from him, tucking it between her shoulder and mine.
I can feel her laughter before she whispers, “Oh, man, I’m in so much trouble with this one. ”
I pull back, hoping Winston doesn’t make a run for it when I let go of his collar.
“Stay,” I tell him, my voice low and the word slow.
I don’t take my eyes off him when I say, “Why don’t you go get cleaned up.
I’ll take care of this mess and then we can find a pet store and get him some chew toys and a bed. ”
“We?” she asks without moving.
“Does this dog seem like a one-person job?”
“I’ll appreciate any help I can get,” she says, putting her hand on my thigh as she pushes herself up to a standing position.
Winston’s eyes follow her, but I put my hand on his back and repeat “Stay.” Amazingly, he listens and I think perhaps he’s going to turn out all right after all.