2. A Day Eraser
A DAY ERASER
SAWYER
My sisters have cajoled me into doing a lot of things for them over the years. Going shopping for prom dresses. Taking them to a boy band concert. Driving them to the mall to get their ears double-pierced when Mom wasn’t paying attention.
But a dog party?
I can’t believe this is my life right now. If this is rock bottom, I’ve hit it. The band is playing the riff for “Who Let the Dogs Out” for their sound check, their amps crackling as a Golden Retriever by the lake howls along like it’s the lead singer.
There’s a bobbing-for-bones bucket over by the gazebo, where a soggy Bulldog tries to dunk his entire head in.
On the dock several feet away, the dogs race off to dive into the lake, water spraying everywhere as a lifeguard—the host’s boyfriend, I’m told—watches the dogs like a sentry. Next to him sits a take-one-slash-leave-one basket of dog toys.
Pretty sure I even saw costume changes for the canine of honor hanging on a tree. I turn to Juliet. “Bagel is going to be wearing a vest later. A vest.”
Juliet arches a brow. “And this bothers you because you hate vests?”
“Of course I don’t hate vests,” I answer.
“Then what’s the problem, Sawyer?” She holds her arms out wide, gesturing to the most over-the-top dog park ever. I bet this would put dog parks in Beverly Hills to shame. “You’re a dog person.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a dog person,” I say, sketching air quotes.
“Please. You run a dog business,” she counters, calling bullshit.
“It’s not like this though,” I grumble.
“Sawyer, are you seriously complaining about a party? You need some fun in your life. Especially today,” she says, gentling her tone.
She barely has to remind me why. I signed the papers mere hours ago. I drag a hand through my hair, as if that’ll get rid of the sting of selling the home that I once shared with my fiancée. “When you said fun, I thought you meant Skee-Ball or pool.”
She tosses her head back, brown hair spilling down her back as she laughs.
At me. Definitely at me. “I didn’t mean a round of pool.
I never mean a round of pool. And your attitude proves my point—this is exactly what you need.
Something light. Something delightful. You don’t need to hide in a darkened man bar and grunt with the other guys as you shoot balls into holes.
You need…” She slaps a hand on the bar. “A Paw-garita.”
I’m not sure I want to know, but against my better judgment, I ask anyway. “What even is a Paw-garita?”
“Who knows?” She sets a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “But whatever it is—you need it.”
She’s so earnest and supportive, like she was earlier when she arrived at the empty house here in Hayes Valley and walked through it one last time with me. My shoes had echoed across the floorboards of the home I’d shared with the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.
On the front porch, Juliet had refused to let me go to my hotel room to work on my plans for business expansion or whittle away at my to-do list as I prep to move to a new town in a couple weeks. Nope—the order of the day, or really, the night, was a party.
I hate letting her down, so I’d said yes. Maybe that wasn’t my brightest idea. I sigh and scrub a hand across my jaw but try my best to let go of this knot of tension inside me. Hell, it’s more than a knot. It’s a steel ball. It’s not Juliet’s fault though.
“You’re right,” I say with a decisive nod, then ask, “Two tequilas?”
“One for you, and one for your attitude?” she asks with a smirk.
I look to the skies. “Why did I say yes to this?”
“Because you know it’s exactly what you need,” Juliet says, poking my chest as a late-May breeze rustles and the scent of something a little cinnamon-y tickles my nose.
I turn toward it, and…
Nope. Not tonight. I don’t have the energy to flirt.
I came here to suffer through one paw-themed cocktail, not get blindsided by a woman who looks like summer in a dress.
But fuck me. The woman walking toward the bar is gorgeous.
Red hair is piled high on her head in a bun.
Freckles dance across her cute nose. Bright, curious eyes sparkle with interest as she peers at the chalkboard menu, a little pink purse dangling on her wrist.
I can’t tell what color her eyes are. Green? Maybe hazel? I’m not sure, but I want to be. My gaze strays down her body next, savoring the way that white summery dress swishes as she moves, showing off strong legs and hinting at a strong body underneath.
When she arrives, she looks straight at the bartender and says an upbeat, “Hello,” right as an elbow lodges into my side.
“Ow,” I mutter, then snap my focus to my sister.
Juliet smirks. Tilts her head. Then clears her throat, catching the redhead’s full attention. “Hi! I’m Juliet, and this is my brother, Sawyer. Some party, isn’t it?”
Are you kidding me? This move is even more nefarious than tricking me into coming to a dog party.
But the redhead isn’t fazed by my sister’s overly outgoing tactic. “Sure is,” she says. “If only I can figure out what’ll be better—a Pina Collie-ada or a Cosmo-pup-itan. Also, nice to meet you both. I’m Chloe.”
“Chloe,” Juliet repeats like the name itself is magic. “What a pretty name. Are you single?”
Chloe blinks and parts her lips but says nothing, while I stare at Juliet, muttering, “You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
My sister shrugs innocently. “It’s a reasonable question.”
Chloe recovers from her surprise to smile at the world’s most obvious wingwoman. “As a matter of fact, I’m very single, Juliet.”
Fine, fine. I do like the sound of very single, but I’m still pissed at Juliet, who’s grinning like the devil as she curls a hand over my shoulder, ignoring me as she talks past me. “So’s Sawyer. And, funny thing, he was just asking me what’s in a Paw-garita—”
“I was not.”
“He was,” Juliet stage-whispers. “Maybe you two can figure that out while I go…powder my nose? Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Does that work for you, Chloe?”
She’s clearly asking for Chloe’s consent to this whole setup, and I do appreciate that. Almost as much as I appreciate Chloe’s smile, bright and bold.
“I’ve been wondering what’s in it too,” she says.
Juliet spins around, her back to Chloe before she whispers to me, “I saw you checking her out. You’re welcome.”
My sister takes off, leaving me alone at the makeshift bar with the stunning redhead.
For a few seconds, I come up empty. It’s been a while since I’ve chatted with a woman I was interested in.
Being with the same person for four years before discovering she’s cheating can knock a man off his game.
Do people even meet in real life anymore?
No idea. But Juliet already left me an opening, so I go with it.
I meet those pretty eyes and ask, “A Paw-garita…Does it mean the dog dipped his paw in the drink behind the bar?”
Chloe lifts a brow like she’s saying well played. “If so, then I’ve been making Paw-garitas every time someone comes to a dinner party at my place and says they don’t like dogs.”
Something funny happens. Something I haven’t experienced in a while. I laugh, and it’s chased by a smile. It surprises me—how easy this is with her. I don’t know this woman, but something about the way she owns the moment, like she’s completely at home in her skin, wakes something up inside me.
“Remind me never to cross you,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll forget, Sawyer,” she says.
And I believe my night just got a whole lot more interesting. Because…fuck my day from hell. Screw my stresses. Forget the home I had to sell. “Chloe, can I buy you a drink?” I ask, nodding to the bar.
She leans in closer, her cinnamon-y scent drifting past my nose again and making my head hazy. “Spoiler alert: drinks are free. So it’s your lucky night.”
“That so?”
“Maybe it is. Since I’m in the mood for a Fuzzy Navel Hound. No idea what it is. But I feel like it’ll erase the day.”
“Tough one?” I ask.
She hesitates, then gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It was a day all right,” she says, ending with a sigh.
I scratch my beard, and she follows my hand as I say, “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
We share a second of understanding, kindred spirits perhaps in life getting turned upside down. Until she smiles again. “But I’m here now. Not at home with boxed wine and salted caramel tiramisu ice cream.”
I suppose I could say the same. “I promise I won’t let you erase the day alone.
Since I’ve had one that needs obliterating.
” I turn to the bartender, a pale white dude with a straw hat, a mustache, and a striped shirt that makes him look like a carnival barker at the turn of the last century, and ask him for two Fuzzy Navel Hounds.
“Coming right up,” he says, but when he grabs a bottle of peach schnapps, flipping it in a theatrical way, then a pitcher of orange juice, I’m already regretting the drink choice.
A Fuzzy Navel Hound really is just a Fuzzy Navel. I was hoping it was going to be a new concoction. Not something I tried to smuggle out of the liquor cabinet and whip up as a teenager.
I turn to Chloe, then whisper, “Schnapps?” Like, can you believe this?
“Just go with it,” she whispers back.
“But…schnapps,” I say again, with a skeptical groan.
“Carpe diem, Sawyer,” she adds.
I arch a brow. “Carpe bad decisions, you mean. Pretty sure schnapps is a bad idea, as my seventeen-year-old self would like to remind me.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Mine too, but…perhaps a bad idea is what we both need to erase the day.”
Both.
The way she says that word with a hint of sensuality, chased with a little bit of hope, makes me think a Fuzzy Navel with her will be just fine after all. Since this woman is impossible to resist.
When the bartender slides the drinks our way, I reach for a few bills, stuff them into the tip jar, then thank him.
“No, thank you,” the chipper guy says, then mouths “good luck” to me.
For fuck’s sake, even the happy-go-lucky bartender is trying to wingman me. I’m not helpless. Just rusty.
With a chin nod, I turn away from him and walk a few feet from the bar with Chloe. I raise the glass toward the woman who’s making me forget how stressed I am about the endless list of things I need to get done. Tomorrow. I’ll think about them tomorrow.
“To absolutely ridiculous parties,” I say, holding her gaze.
She clinks her glass to mine. “It’s not that ridiculous.”
“It’s pretty ridiculous, Chloe,” I say, gesturing to the band that’s now playing “Hound Dog.” “The playlist alone is.”
She motions me closer. “I have to tell you something.”
Since she’s beckoning me, I’m betting I’ll like what she has to say. Just an educated guess. “What is it?” I ask as I inch nearer to her.
She cups her hand this close to my ear, and holy fuck—a shiver runs down my spine. When was the last time I felt a hot shiver? Can’t recall, but it knocks a few brain cells loose as soft tendrils of her hair swish across my shoulder, and she whispers, “The party’s not for the dog.”
I feign shock. “It’s not? Tell me then. Tell me who it’s for.”
She pulls back, rolling her eyes. “It’s for people who want to be ridiculous. And maybe ridiculous isn’t a bad thing,” she says as she lifts the glass to her lips.
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m not sold. Silly isn’t good in my line of work. Serious is. Determined is even better. I knock back some of the drink and… “Holy shit. That’s sweet,” I say, wincing at the explosion of syrupy liquor.
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing either. Maybe you needed a sweet drink today.”
I’m sensing a theme with her. “You’re really a glass-half-full person, aren’t you?”
“I’m guessing you’re not? I noticed your scowl from a mile away.”
“You noticed me?” I say with a quirk in my lips. Flirting is like riding a bike, it seems, since I’m getting my groove back real fast.
“Hard not to. You’ve got that whole brooding-guy-at-the-bar energy. Like, you’re so over everything. Made me want to prove you’re not.”
“And how’s it going? Your proof?”
With a pleased look, she lifts the glass before she whispers over the rim, “Ask me later,” then takes another sip.
“I will,” I say as I let my gaze travel down her frame, then return to those captivating eyes. Hazel. Pretty sure they’re hazel, with flecks of green. “Later definitely sounds good.”
Her smile fades and for a quiet moment the air crackles between us, like we’re both thinking of later. The only question is how we’ll get there.
She nods to the small lake, where a black Lab is splashing into the water, in hot pursuit of a Frisbee. With a glint in her eyes, she says, “Want to do something really ridiculous?”
Like take you to my room and do bad things to you? “Depends on whether that means we’re about to make our great escape or not.”
“Sawyer,” she says admonishingly. “Not until we play a party game.” She tips her chin toward the water. “Let’s go throw tennis balls to the dogs.”
This was definitely not what I’d expected tonight, but when in Rome. I double back to the bar, set down my empty glass, then reach for hers. Our fingers brush as I take it, and a spark the likes of which I haven’t felt in ages ignites in my chest.
After I put down her glass on the bar too, we head to the lake as a guy with a camera calls out, “Hey! Group photo by the treat table in five!” but I barely hear him—my attention is on Chloe.
When we reach the small dock, Chloe sets down her pink purse thingy on the railing as a boisterous Border Collie charges past me, parks his furry butt on the edge of the dock, then thumps his tail.
The blue-eyed, black-and-white dog stares intensely at me as someone else barks loudly behind us.
Several someones, to be precise, but that’s been the background noise all night long.
“All right, buddy. Let’s see what you can do,” I say to the pooch.
I grab a tennis ball, cock my arm, and chuck the ball into the lake. The Border Collie flies off the dock with a loud splash, and Chloe laughs.
Her amusement is muffled seconds later by a loud bark that grows deafening as a lumbering smoke-gray Mastiff barrels down the short dock, chasing the tennis ball too. He smashes into Chloe’s legs as he hurls himself into the water.
Knocking Chloe in right after him.