Frisky Business: Chick Flick Club #3

by Monroe, Lila

  “Really?” he laughs. “You need to know that?’

  “Of course! You want the dog with the right energy level for your household. You know, like if there’s a wife and kids, you’d want a different dog than if it’s just you.”

  It’s true, but of course, I may have ulterior motives in finding out his status.

  “Ah,” he says with a nod. “That makes sense. Well in that case, it’s just me.”

  “Great!” I blurt out. “For the matching process. We’ll get you the perfect companion. I promise.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Based on his sexy grin, he’s about two seconds away from asking me to be that companion. At least for a date.

  Yes! I hold my breath, as he parts his lips . . .

  “Eve! There you are.”

  I want to scream in frustration. I can almost hear the shattering-glass sound effect as the spell breaks between me and Hemsworth.

  I turn. Noah is sauntering toward me. Talk about bad timing!

  Hemsworth turns toward the kennel beside him, where Bouncer is jumping up to get his attention.

  I frown at Noah. “Why are you here?”

  “To take pictures.”

  Like I hadn’t just texted him to tell him the scheme wouldn’t work.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Hemsworth as I point at Bouncer. “This little guy would be great for you—lots of energy! Why don’t you take a minute with him?”

  I grab Noah’s arm and tug him down the hall. “I texted you,” I hiss. “We’ll have to figure out a different way.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “My boss pointed out that we can’t do anything that will make money and risk the shelter losing its non-profit status.”

  “Damn.” Noah pauses. “What if we don’t funnel any of the money back to the shelter? Problem solved.”

  “But . . .” I frown. “That wouldn’t be right, us making money off them and giving nothing in return.”

  “It wouldn’t be nothing,” Noah points out. “We’ll still be getting the word out about the dogs, trying to get them adopted. You wouldn’t be doing anything to directly affect the shelter financially.”

  I open my mouth to object when Fred comes to the front of his kennel and gives out a little yip.

  Noah hunches down. “This guy agrees, don’t you, boy?”

  Fred, the total traitor, whines and starts wagging as he licks Noah’s hand.

  “Noah,” I warn. “I can’t have this discussion right now but it’s a non-starter.” Before he can respond, I return to Hemsworth, who is laughing at Bouncer’s antics.

  “So,” I say, beaming. “Should I start the adoption paperwork?”

  He smiles at me. “I do like this guy, but . . .” He sighs. “ I’m actually going out of town on business for a while, so maybe it’s not the perfect time to adopt.”

  “How long will you be away?” I ask. “Maybe we can put a hold on—”

  “Shit,” he says, looking at his phone. “I’m actually running late. But hey . . . when I’m back in town?” I can’t tell if his question is about a pet adoption or me, but before I can ask him to clarify, he gives me a squeeze on my shoulder and rushes out.

  Damn. That didn’t go how I hoped at all—for Bouncer, or me. I look at Bouncer, who looks even more disappointed than me, watching down the now-empty hallway. “Sorry, boy,” I say. “Hopefully he’ll come back.” For both of us.

  With a sigh, I turn toward Noah, but he’s gone. I’m relieved that I don’t have to deal with him until later. I retrieve my cleaning supplies and head to the puppy room. Only to stop in my tracks. Because there’s Noah, taking photos through the glass with his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, walking up to him and snatching the phone from his hand.

  He snatches it back. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Noah! I told you—”

  “And I told you it’s not hurting anyone,” he insists, flashing what he clearly thinks is a charming grin. “Look, hypothetically, we’re doing nothing wrong. You walk the dogs, I happen to meet up with you to take pictures. Or, you know, let someone else walk them for a bit. We’ll sneak them out and then back in with no one the wiser.”

  “I don’t know, Noah.” I bite my thumbnail.

  “You want to help the dogs, don’t you? And replace the damn chicken.”

  “Of course, I do,” I sigh, the edge of my anger wearing off a little. “But . . .”

  He changes tacks, shooting a truth arrow right at my heart. “I looked at Fred’s paperwork on his cage—he’s been here for months, Eve. Months.”

  “I know.”

  “He needs a good home.”

  I fold my arms. “I know you’re trying to manipulate me.”

  He grins. “Is it working?”

  “No.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Sure about that? What about the part with the poor defenseless animals, relying on us to find them forever homes?”

  I take a deep breath. Dammit.

  “OK, we’ll give it a try,” I say, looking around to make sure Diane isn’t anywhere nearby. “But we have to keep it on the down-low. No one can know about this, and the second we get the money we need, we shut it down. Understand?”

  “Understood.” Noah grins. “You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  Is he so sure about that? Because I think I already do.

  10

  Eve

  It’s mid-morning and I’m with my friends at a chichi boutique salon. Yes, salon. Where you sit in a luxurious floral-printed wingback chair and a custom fashion show, complete with a mini-runway of no less than three models in your size, happens just for you.

  And by “you,” I mean a super-rich celebrity for whom money is no object. Because the clothes here? No prices. Because if you have to ask . . .

  Let’s just say, you can’t afford it.

  And I can’t, not in a million years, but Gemma is here to put together a wardrobe for one of her clients who is going on a world cruise. The client? She can’t say who it is, but she’s currently on a movie shoot in Madrid, clearly too busy to shop for herself.

  Gemma invited us along for fun, but it’s a surreal window into her sometimes very glamourous life. She seems completely at home here, where I feel like a total imposter.

  “So, this is how the other half lives?” I ask as I sip my blood orange mimosa, feeling way underdressed and uncomfortably out-classed.

  Gemma grins. “I know, right? I think the fun of shopping is trying on clothes, but some people . . .” She shrugs and knocks back the rest of her drink. “Not that I’m complaining. Wait till they bring out the apps. They do this pastry tapenade thing.” She looks at Zoey. “You’re going to lose your mind.”

  “Speaking of losing minds,” Zoey says, turning to me. “How’s operation choke the chicken?”

  I do a spit take and then mock-glare at her. She timed that perfectly. On purpose. “You mean operation chicken replacement?” I sigh, dramatic. “Not so great.”

  Gemma looks at me, concerned. “I could get Zach to loan you the money . . .”

  “No!” I protest. “Not a chance. I am not taking money from your uber-rich boyfriend!”

  I put up a palm when she opens her mouth. “And don’t even think of finding some way to covertly make a chicken miraculously appear.”

  She pouts.

  “Anyway.” I take another delicious sip. “Noah came up with this idea . . .” I go on to tell them about his plan, even though I’m still weird about using the dogs this way. Although, I’m pretty sure no one will want to hire out the dogs anyway, so it’s probably a moot point.

  “. . . so then he shows up to take pictures, interrupting me and Hemsworth when I’m sure he was about to—what?”

  I stop because both of my friends are staring at me, wide-eyed. I look down at my top, but I haven’t spilled. “What’s wrong?”

  Zoey and Gemma look at each other and shake their heads before
they return their gazes to me. “You didn’t think to lead with the Hemsworth story?” Zoey, demands, appalled.

  “Oh,” I laugh. “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind. He came by the shelter again to check out the dogs. Anyway, he’s gone out of town on business, so who knows?”

  “This is unacceptable,” Zoey says. She reaches for my phone. “Especially since you’re not willing to get good and wet with the pool boy. Who else is on Perfect Match?”

  “Zo—” I sigh.

  “She’s right, you know,” Gemma says, leaning toward Zoey, who is scrolling on my phone. “You snooze, you lose—out on hot guys. Oh, what about him?”

  “Match,” Zoey says as she swipes. “This nerdy hipster guy, too. Oh, and look at this one. Rowr!” She aims the phone at Gemma who adds an appreciative cougarish growl of her own.

  “HEY!” I whisper-yell. “Do I have any say in this?”

  “No!” Both of my BFFs laugh together.

  “We know you,” Gemma adds. “And if we left it up to you, it’d never happen. You’re too . . .”

  “Picky,” Zoey supplies.

  “I’m not picky,” I protest. “I’m discerning. Looking for The One!”

  “Gems and I know what you really need.” Zoey waves me off. “We’re old and domesticated now.”

  I laugh. “I’m older than both of you,” I point out.

  “All the more reason we need to get you hooked up,” Gemma says, lifting her empty glass up high. The saleslady rushes over with a full one. “We can’t have you growing cobwebs down there.” She aims a pitying look at my crotch.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” I say. Though it feels like maybe it’s getting there. Especially when I’m starting to think I might have been hasty in ditching Tom the Tit Man. “Alright,” I concede, “maybe you have a point.”

  My phone sounds with a text, but as I hold my hand out, my friends with zero boundaries read it. “Oh!” Gemma exclaims, grinning at me. “It’s the pool boy.”

  I snatch my phone back and read the text from Noah.

  SCORE! appts booked 4 this aft. Bring: Bouncer, Fred, Sassy, Farley

  And then there’s an address.

  “Holeeey shit,” I say and then look up at my friends. “This just might work! He’s made appointments.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Gemma laughs. “Get gone, girl!”

  I gulp the rest of my mimosa and run out.

  * * *

  Feeling seriously guilty about the subterfuge, I casually take the four dogs from the shelter under the pretense of needing a big hike. It makes me feel even worse when no one is the least bit suspicious.

  Reminding myself of the big picture, I take the dogs to the park where Noah has already set up like he’s been planning for this his whole life. Seriously—he has a clipboard with a timesheet and even one of those Square dongle things you plug into your phone to take credit card payments.

  “You look legit,” I say as I come up to him. “All you need now is a branded shirt and a whistle.”

  He grins at me. “If I had more time, I would have contacted a friend who does promo shirts.” I have a weird feeling he’s not even joking.

  He hunches down and greets the dogs as they swarm him, except for Fred, who has thrown himself down on his back, wordlessly begging for a belly rub. Laughing, Noah delivers.

  This scheme may be about earning enough cash to replace the chicken, but it says something that he does care about the dogs, too.

  “Alright boss,” I say loudly to get his attention. “What’s on the agenda? And more importantly, how much will this earn us?”

  He looks up at me as he’s scratching Farley behind the giant, floppy ears. “Get this: a hundred.”

  A hundred dollars for the afternoon? I blink back at him. “That’s going to take a hundred days. We don’t have a hundred days, Noah.”

  He laughs, straightening up. “One hundred per dog. Per hour.”

  My jaw drops.

  “Seriously??!”

  “Good, huh?” he grins and glances at the clipboard. “Alright, we’ve got five minutes until the appointments start. First up, we’ve got a guy from a dating website called Real Bros coming. He’s bringing some dudes to do profile pics—make them look warm and loveable. Then, I have someone from CandyShack—an old client of mine—coming to scope out for a photo shoot for their new dog candy line.”

  I frown. “Dog candy?”

  “I know.” Noah grins. “Then I’ve got a professional clown who’s looking to add a dog to his act, so he wants to give it a trial run. That one might actually convert into an adoption, so . . .”

  “And you managed to set all of this up just today?” I blink.

  Noah gives a modest shrug. “Gotta love social media.”

  But I’m seriously impressed. “That’s . . . not bad going, Noah,” I begrudgingly praise him.

  “Look, here come the ‘bros.’ ”

  I look up to see six men walking toward us, all with various forms of facial hair, not one of them clean-shaven. I think of Gemma’s Zach and how hairy he was when they first hooked up. So hairy that she used to call him Bigfoot. As I scope these guys, I look forward to the day when the hairy hipster trend will go the way of the dodo. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a smooth square jaw on a man, sort of like . . .

  “Noah?” The head bro approaches and extends his hand toward Noah. Noah introduces me and, in turn, I introduce the dogs, who are instantly a huge hit.

  Not just with the bros, either. Our photo shoot attracts a lot of attention from others in the park and it isn’t long before we have a group spectators. Ever enterprising, Noah gives out business cards that he’s whipped up sometime this morning.

  The clown shows up—in full costume—and actually does something of an impromptu show with Sassy the Pomeranian. Even though the little dog has no idea what’s going on, she’s a ham and has everyone laughing the whole time. By the end of the “show” the clown is clearly smitten with Sassy. I give him the shelter’s information so he can submit an adoption application.

  By the time we wrap up and I have to rush the dogs back to the shelter before closing time, it’s clear the afternoon’s been a success. More than I ever could have imagined.

  “This just might work,” I tell Noah as we half-jog the last block to the shelter.

  He gives me a tired smile, but I’m sure he’s holding in an “I told you so.”

  “You get the dogs settled, I’ll order an Uber,” he says. “And a pizza, unless you have plans?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Pizza sounds perfect.”

  * * *

  When we get home, I jump in the shower and throw on my PJs before joining Noah in the living room. He’s thrown on a pair of comfy sweat shorts and a Giants T-shirt, and has two drinks on the coffee table: a beer for him and a mojito for me. “You remembered,” I say, surprised he recalls what I ordered at the bar that night when he was Not-Kyle.

  He clinks his beer bottle against my glass. “Well earned.”

  I smile and take a sip. “You did great today,” I say. “I have to admit, I didn’t have much faith in the plan, but you brought a lot of hustle. I’m impressed.”

  “What’s that, a compliment?” he teases.

  I give him a playful nudge. “I can give credit where credit’s due. You said this is your job?” I ask, curious.

  He nods. “Building brands, making connections . . . I love taking seeds and nurturing them with marketing and using social media to help them grow into giant beanstalks or sunflowers . . .” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not great with metaphors, but you know what I mean.”

  He almost seems shy about it, and I have to admit, bashful Noah is way hotter than arrogant ass Noah—and that guy was pretty smokin’. “I do. And you grew a whole garden of awesomeness today. Like when you upsold that Real Bros guy to have all the dogs in some of those pictures and then selling him the stock photos for the website? Smooth.”

  He gr
ins. “Thanks.”

  He’s about to say something more when the doorbell rings. While I get us plates and paper towels from the kitchen, he gets the pizza. We rendezvous back on the couch, and I sigh with pleasure. “Pepperoni, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

  He laughs, scrolling on his phone. “You think today was good? We have even more appointments for tomorrow. More bros, a local raw dog-food startup, and an ad agency wants to do a meet and greet.”

  Even though it’s full of pizza, my mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “And, Gizmo the clown wants me to tell you that he’s coming to the shelter tomorrow to adopt Sassy.”

  “Oh, Noah, that’s amazing . . . thank you!” If I didn’t have a slice of pizza in one hand and my mojito in the other, I would hug him.

  I shove the pizza in my mouth to keep from blurting stupid stuff while I’m on a pro-adoption high.

  Noah chews thoughtfully for a long moment before he asks, “So, have you always loved dogs?” He chuckles as he looks down—lovingly?—at Hans and Leia who are flaked out on the couch between us. “I mean, I get it, but . . . ?”

  I smile as I reach down to scratch Leia’s belly, making her snort and stretch before she returns to sleep. “I’ve always liked dogs—all animals, really. But when I was a kid, my mom and I moved around a lot. Because of that, I had trouble making—and keeping—friends. One day, my mom brought home this mutt that one of her friends couldn’t keep anymore. She was the best dog,” I say wistfully. “I couldn’t believe that anyone wouldn’t want her. Anyway, she became my best friend.”

  I pick a slice of pepperoni off my pizza and pop it into my mouth, avoiding looking at Noah. Maybe I’m scared of him mocking me, but after a few long minutes, I can’t help it. I look up at him.

  He’s smiling at me. “I’m sorry you had it rough. Obviously that dog had a big impact on you.”

  I nod. “That’s why I’m so committed to shelter dogs. You never know the kind of impact they can have on a person. A kid. Maybe a lonely senior who’s lost their partner. Unconditional love—you can’t always depend on that from other people, but pets? Always.”