Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
EVERYBODY BARK FOR A SLICE
I’m sweating. Panting. And not from a hot, toe-curling, earth-shattering orgasm like I desperately need—but from walking six dogs at once through the park.
Yep. Six. Simultaneously.
My casual midday gig involves exercising the better-dressed-than-I pets of the rich and famous, while they sip overpriced champagne on rooftop terraces and fake-laugh with their equally rich friends.
Or at least that’s how I imagine it goes.
Honestly, it’s not a bad job. I get to hang out with furry friends, the pay is solid, and I don’t have to talk to people unless absolutely necessary.
The best part? Rich people know other rich people, so referrals keep rolling in.
And the hours fit perfectly between my shifts at the Gilded Bean and the H?tel Chateau Blanc.
Sundays are the best because I get to walk the dogs and have no other shifts. No other responsibilities. I can go home, make a hot meal, and settle in with a smutty book and a glass of wine. It’s the only day of the week where I have free time to unwind.
I finally reach the fenced-in dog enclosure and unclip all the leashes, one by one. They take off like a pack of four-legged rockets.
With a huff, I shake out my arms before unzipping the hoodie I threw on this morning because the sky looked ominously gray.
Did I need it though?
No. Of course not.
I can almost picture Mother Nature laughing at me.
I shove my sunglasses higher up my nose to block out her harsh rays. Clearly someone’s in a good mood today. The sun is out in full force, and I’m grossly overdressed. Hence, the sweating.
The panting? That’s because these dogs, combined, have enough pull to drag a small car—and I’ve been forced into a reluctant jog despite every attempt to slow them down.
Who needs cardio when you have dogs?
Pookie, a gray and white schnauzer wearing a pink polka-dot skirt, barks at me and sits pretty, waiting for me to throw the ball. All the others have run off to go sniff other dogs and pee along the fence, but Pookie—ridiculous name I know—loves a good game of fetch.
“Oh, you want this?” I pull out her red bedazzled ball—because of course it’s bedazzled—and wave it in front of her. Rich people.
Pookie barks again, eyes locked on the prize.
“Go get it!” I launch it across the enclosure, and she tears off after it like she’s in the Puppy Olympics, wind in her furry girly beard and all. 10/10 performance.
I plop down on a nearby bench, only half noticing the guy already sitting there. Trench coat. Sunglasses. On a hot sunny day.
Clearly, I’m not the only one who misread the weather. How is he not sweating like I am?
Pookie trots back, but instead of bringing the ball to me, she drops it neatly at the feet of Trench Coat Man. Then sits pretty.
Huh. Okay then.
She usually hates strangers. Especially men.
Apparently, this one gets a pass.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching down for the ball, only for Pookie to snatch it again and drop it right back at his feet like I don’t exist.
The man tilts his head and flashes me a small side-smirk but doesn’t say a word.
I can’t read his expression—his sunglasses are so dark they may as well be blackout curtains.
Still, there’s something about the angle of his jaw, the stubble along his chin…
Something familiar tugs at the back of my mind. I’ve seen him before. Recently too.
He bends down, grabs the ball, and throws it in one smooth motion—farther than I’ve ever managed. Damn. Good arm. Baseball, maybe?.
I clear my throat. “Which one’s yours?” I ask, purely out of politeness. Definitely not because mysterious men are becoming a pattern in my life.
Nope. Not at all.
I scan for my group of chaos gremlins as they dart around the park. It’s packed today. Probably because sunny weather always draws out the fur-baby crowd.
I catch the slight turn of his head before he slides his sunglasses down just a touch, tipping his face toward me. His eyes are dark—maybe black—but they shimmer faintly, picking up a hint of blue from the sky. There’s something… off about how striking they are.
“Your dog,” I clarify, in case he didn’t hear me. “Which one is yours?”
He clears his throat and sits up straighter, pushing his sunglasses back into place. “The… black one over there. No—that one.” He gestures vaguely, and I squint at the clump of dogs by the water bowl, all varying shades of black.
Helpful.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“My what?” He whips his head towards me in shock, like I’ve asked for his blood type and Social Security number.
“Your dog’s name. You know. The thing you yell when you want them to come?”
“Yes. Of course. His name.” He nods rapidly. “His name is… Bruno.” He lets out a sharp whistle. “Bruno! Come here, boy!”
And that’s when it happens.
Every single dog in the park—every single one—freezes mid-action and turns to stare.
Then… stampede.
Dozens of paws thunder across the grass, straight for us. More specifically—for him.
I shriek-laugh as a Great Dane barrels into the bench, nearly launching me off it. The man is swarmed in seconds, completely overtaken by fur, tongues, and excited barking.
“Wow,” I wheeze between laughs. “Dogs really love you.”
He gives me a helpless look as he tries to fend off an especially drooly pug intent on giving him a full facial. Somewhere in the chaos, his sunglasses get knocked off and land in the grass. His expression is… wild. Stunned. A little frazzled. I’m living for it.
A flash of sparkle catches my eye—Pookie’s glittery red ball. An idea strikes me and I snatch it up, leap onto the bench, and shout, “Who wants the ball?!”
All at once the dogs switch their attention to me and bark in excitement.
“Fetch!” I yell, hurling the bedazzled ball as far as I can.
The dogs bolt, the stampede shifting directions and freeing the poor guy from his slobbery dog-pile demise.
He exhales like he just survived battle. “Thanks,” he mutters, brushing himself off as he grabs his sunglasses from the ground. He straightens his coat and awkwardly pats at his shoulder, trying to wipe off a streak of goop. No luck.
“Ah! There you are.” He grabs the collar of a black dog nearby and clips on a leash.
“You named your girl dog Bruno?” I ask, raising a brow. It’s definitely a she—hard to miss during the full-body dog hug from earlier.
His eyes widen slightly before his face smooths back into neutral. Sunglasses on. Expression blank.
“Um. Yeah. Named her after that song no one can stop singing.”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Bold choice.”
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but he suddenly turns, mutters, “See you around,” and walks off like he’s late for something.
I glance down to reclaim my seat… but freeze.
A single white daisy sits at the edge of the bench.
I slowly bend to pick it up, recognition crashing over me.
The Gilded Bean.
The mysterious stud muffin. But without the hat this time.
I turn around to stare at his retreating back and wonder whether I’ll see him here again.
And I was right.
He does have gorgeous eyes.