When we used to visit Grandma Nancy, my favorite place to write was by the big picture window in the breakfast nook while she puttered around the basement organizing her antique doll collection, listening to Barbara Streisand on her iPod stereo. Back then, I cringed at the melody of “The Way We Were.” But what I wouldn’t give to hear that now with Carla’s melodic soprano singing along with the diva.
Now, I do a hundred pushups, trying to shake off my regrets. If I allow it, today can represent a brand-new start for me and the little terrors. After I’m finished, I take a quick shower to rinse off the sweat and slip on my mustache pants. The moment I open the door, Taco, Burrito, and Chili burst into the room. I need the pants because any little extra bit of support is welcome. Their loud barking triggers a slight headache.
“Quiet! Quiet!” I put my finger to my lips, hoping to mime them into submission since my words don’t do the trick.
They bark even louder and throw spinning like whirling furry cyclones into the mix. They could be on America’s Got Talent as an animal act. Except for one thing, there’s no rhyme or reason to their performance.
“Listen here, you little mutts, a nice lady named Brooke is coming today to whip you into shape. No more non-stop barking! Be pleasant. Be cordial. If you scare her away, you’ll regret it. No more jumping all over the furniture.” I point to Taco. “And you, buddy! No more licking my hair! Kapeesh?” I clap my hands and whistle. “Now move it!”
It takes a minute, but I finally herd them out of the bedroom. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. In a few hours, Brooke will be here to make all my frustration go away. Hooking leashes to the little beasts, I take them outside to relieve themselves. If I decide to live here long term, I need to build a fence to contain the furry mob.
I’m filled with anticipation each time I think of the dark-haired beauty, but only because she’s the person who can help me. I haven’t been alone with a woman since Carla passed, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s almost as if I’m betraying her memory by hiring a dog trainer. Women steer clear of me most of the time.
There was a romance novelist I met at a writing conference in Chicago last year. Colleen something or other. Pretty enough, with really thick, long blonde hair and green eyes. But I have to admit, she did know how to carry on an interesting conversation. There were absolutely no sparks, at least not on my end. I’m more a brunette man. When she asked to exchange contact info, I declined. I told her it was too soon for me to start dating again. She nodded and said, “I totally get it.”
I lied.
It’s been close to three freaking years, and I think anyone would agree that it wouldn’t cause people to spit at me in the street if I went out on a date, even just for companionship. And I want to. I want to find a woman who gets me the way Carla did. But I don’t think I’ll ever find someone like her.
And yes, maybe I’m a little afraid to try. After all, I only know how to touch one woman. How to kiss one woman. Since that woman was taken, no one else has inspired me to want to.
By the time I met Carla, I had just about given up on love at the ripe age of twenty-seven. But she made me believe all over again. One look into her blue eyes and my insides turned to mush. Her exterior was beautiful, like a Renaissance painting.
But her inside…took my very breath away.
When I first laid eyes on Carla at the local laundromat, I felt like a wrecking ball had struck the center of my chest. My hands shook, and I accidentally poured bleach all over my lucky black jeans. She laughed that infectious laugh of hers and we struck up a conversation instantly. Even though my lucky jeans were ruined, I knew it was the luckiest day of my life.
Carla and I were inseparable from that day on. It was so easy to be around her. For the first time in my life, I could actually be myself. She supported my dream to be a novelist, even though the prospect of being traditionally published was slim to none. With Carla as the wind beneath my wings, I got a contract after only five query letters. That day, we’d eaten tapas at a local bistro, danced in the rain until we were soaked through, and made love in the shower to warm up.
I had no idea that my beautiful angel was only meant to be in my life for a season. If only I’d known our marriage would last a mere five years, I would have spent every second worshipping her, and not one second arguing or sulking.
I still think about Carla, but for the first time since the tragedy, another woman has entered my thoughts.
I know nothing about her at all except the fact that she owns a dog training facility. She must be pretty good at it because she taught Merle how to snowboard and a bulldog snowboarding is a treat…even for a guy like me who’d rather have a cat.
I guess I do know something else about Brooke. She’s pretty with eyes that can’t decide if they’re blue or green. A woman’s eyes are the most sensual part of her. They can flash with anger, passion, sadness, joy. Whoever said they are the windows to the soul was definitely onto something.
***
I stand in front of the bedroom closet, trying to decide what to wear like some giddy high schooler. My weight keeps shifting from one foot to the other, and I feel kinda silly. Even though my body’s starting to thaw, I have no way of knowing if she’ll warm up to me or my little hellions. I’m not a bad looking guy for thirty-seven, but I learned long ago about the dangers of being overly confident when it comes to the opposite sex. Most women hate my guts.
Brooke seemed really nice on TV, but what if she’s nothing like that in person? What if it was all an act to drum up business? What if she’s an arrogant wench? My mind races with a million thoughts, none of them positive. As a writer, my characters rarely turn out the way I want them to. Life imitates art.
And I used my pen name when I emailed her like a scared hermit. Brooke thinks she’s meeting with W. Ellis Cole at two o’clock. I guess she is meeting with him, in a way. Cole isn’t a complete fabrication. He has a Facebook page and a Twitter handle. He even posts to Instagram via his publicist. He’s real enough, right?
Wrong.
Regret niggles at every recess of my body and I feel like I might throw up. I reach for a sweater and a pair of khakis. Fight back the urge to dress like your father. I have an immediate change of heart and go for a button-down green shirt and a pair of dark denim True Religion jeans.
I hold the outfit up to my chest and study my reflection. This looks youthful. Scratch that. Youthful doesn’t sound young at all. It sounds like I’m trying too fucking hard. Millennials don’t walk around saying “youthful,” but I’m sure that it’s a popular word in retirement communities.
I wonder about Brooke’s age. On TV, it looked as if she’d barely graduated college. With that killer body and those piercing eyes, she radiates vitality. It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, but she looks, dare I say…youthful. She’s probably quite a few years younger than me. She’s way too young for you, dipshit. Not that it’s any of my business. Good thing you don’t want to date her.
The argument with myself wages on.
I toss the clothes on the bed and head to the bathroom. Taking a long, steamy shower, I let the hot water cleanse my skin and refresh my mind. This is the most relaxing part of my day.
When I get out, I towel off and open the medicine cabinet. I stare at my cologne selection and discover it’s like a geriatric version of Ralph Lauren. I debate if I should spray some on or skip it altogether. I’ve heard many women say that they love a man who smells great. Obviously, that’s worlds better than the alternative. I rifle through the bottles until my hands clench the Gucci brand. No. Carla loved that one on me. It would be wrong to use it again for some other woman, and I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard. I’m desperate not to come across as desperate.
I’m so fucking desperate.
I split the baby, grab some Eternity and spray on just a little bit. I take a deep breath. Soon, I will be face-to-face with the first woman I’ve been attracted to since my wife passe
d away. More than that epic realization, I really hope she can help me with the dogs. I am desperate for these Chihuahuas to start behaving.
I think about Brooke’s infectious smile and her gorgeous azure eyes. I think about the warm, comforting tone of her voice. I think about how amazing she is at what she does. My heart starts galloping until I feel overwhelmed. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Chapter 5
Brooke
As my car hugs every curve in the winding road around Prior Lake, Ed Sheeran and Beyoncé harmonize the lyrics to “Perfect.” I love the song. It makes me feel all tingly inside. Too bad a man can’t make me feel the way a beautifully composed song can.
As the last notes fade away, he pops into my mind. I shake my head and grimace.
I broke up with Chad seventeen months ago after we were together for nearly two years. He was ideal in so many ways, from his emerald eyes to his eight pack. The man had the most amazing abs I had ever seen. Licking them used to be one of my favorite pastimes. Chad had a meticulous workout regime. He woke up every morning at five o’clock to hit the gym before heading to work at his law firm.
I’d been wrongly convinced that our love was real. But looking back, I was more in love with the idea of Chad than the man himself. The thought of marrying a handsome, successful lawyer almost made me overlook the fact that he barely made time for our relationship. When he forgot my birthday, the camel’s back had split in two when confronted with the last straw. And when he’d brushed my hurt aside as if it was no big deal, I’d ended things. And even then, he didn’t seem to care.
I know I need someone who is fully present. Hell, can he at least remember my birthday? That’s not asking too much of a steady boyfriend, is it? Still, I’m in no rush to take up with a new guy. Focusing on work makes me happy.
It does.
At thirty-two, I’d be a fool to completely ignore my biological clock. But I refuse to settle. I’d rather be single than to be alone in my own relationship. I made a promise to myself, and I intend to keep it. Will I die a lonely, old lady surrounded by my herd of dogs? Perhaps. It wouldn’t be the worst thing.
At the stoplight, I check my reflection in the vanity mirror. I’m about to meet a world-famous author in a few minutes. I want to make sure I’m camera ready for a selfie. If he’ll agree to it, I’ll set my shame to the side.
Or maybe that’s a bad idea. I don’t want to come across as a groupie and mark myself as unprofessional. My business reputation is on the line. But do authors even have groupies? I shake my head and snap myself back to the present moment. I’m overthinking this whole meeting. But I can’t help it.
It’s W. Ellis Cole!
Honk! The car behind me causes me to jump a little. I didn’t even notice that the light turned green. Too busy with thoughts of W. Ellis Cole, who for all I know would make a great date for my grandmother.
I put my foot on the gas and make my way to Cole’s house. It’s a gorgeous castle by the lake, although a little run-down. It could use some taming of the wild lawn, a new coat of paint, and some brick repair. In its present condition, I doubt even Mary Schweich could sell it. As I slide my Honda into the driveway, I notice a shiny silver BMW in the open garage.
He must’ve sold a ton of books, I think with an admiring glance as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. My heart threatens to gallop out of control. I’m so damn nervous, I can hardly think straight. Shaking my arms out at the elbows, I chastise myself for being a complete ninny. I’ve never gotten nervous for an appointment, even for aggressive dogs that like to bite. I take a deep breath and try to look relaxed.
After what feels like forever, I hear dogs barking. The door opens, and I’m face-to-face with a breathtakingly handsome, tall man with boyish brown hair and intense dark eyes. They’re so brown they appear black. This can’t be Cole. Please, God, let this be some assistant. Butler. Second cousin twice removed. Anyone other than Cole. I wave and smile at him, trying not to look stupid.
He quickly shuts the door behind him, lowering the cacophony of barking to a manageable roar. He extends his hand to me. “Hi, Brooke, nice to meet you, I’m W. Ellis Cole, also known as Landon. I use a pen name, it’s a long story, but I don’t want to bore you with all of that.”
“Hi.” Don’t just stand there, looking like a dope. Fucking say something intelligent! “It’s…nice to…meet you, Mr. Co…Landon.”
He grins, and my knees grow weak. “Please, come in.”
I follow him inside. Glancing around, I admire the interior. Marble floors, mahogany woodwork, soaring ceilings. And the piece de resistance of every single home on this exclusive street, a breathtaking view of Prior Lake from each and every picture window. It’s a beautiful home with a woman’s touch. There’s a collection of old books on a shelf in the office to my right. Some family photos and knickknacks in the living room. Even magnets on the stainless-steel fridge. I’m sure he’s married.
Calm down, Brooke. He’s definitely claimed by someone else. Someone far more beautiful than you.
“So, like I told you, I’ve been having some trouble with my dogs…” Four Chihuahuas bolt into the living room like a thundering herd, barking and wagging their little tails. They are adorable. I fall in love before I can take another breath. Landon points at them one-by-one. “Meet Taco, Burrito, Chili, and Fajita.”
“Hey, boys.” I kneel to pet them. They cozy up to me, relishing in the affection. Their long hair feels like silk running through my fingers. They’re gorgeous. Anyone with any dog experience can tell these are top of the line purebred dogs. It’s a shame they’re not being utilized for breeding anymore. Landon would do well to get the two males fixed. I don’t have the heart to tell him yet that Burrito and Taco are bitches.
Landon points to Taco. “This one has a serious problem.”
“What is it?” I look up at him fully expecting him to say the dog has bitten him.
“He’s always licking my hair. Taco is obsessed with freshly shampooed hair. Every time I get out of the shower, he tries to climb me like a freakin’ tree and licks my hair until I have to shampoo it again!”
I laugh because he’s done something a person rarely does while in my presence. Surprise me about their dog.
“It’s not funny,” he grumps, stepping back and glaring at the cute little furball and then back at me again. I’m not sure which one of us has incited his annoyance. “Not at all.”
“I know, sir. It’s just that…” Backpedaling has never been my strong suit. I’m so good at what I do, and so in love with people, I rarely have to. Something about this guy rankles me, despite his hot as hell exterior.
“Sir?” He pulls himself up to his full height until he’s looming over my diminutive frame. “Do I look old enough to be a ‘sir?’”
I shake my head. Landon looks to be somewhere solidly in his thirties. He keeps himself in shape too. And I couldn’t help but notice his nice buns in those designer jeans, and the way the dark rinse denim clings to his muscular thighs. Before I can stop it, my tongue darts out to moisten my dry lips. I try not to get distracted.
“That’s a relief.”
Landon smiles, showcasing a perfect dimple in each cheek. Now, my tongue yearns to dart out and lick each indentation. I want to taste him. I want to run my hands down his back to land on his perfect ass. I want to…
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”
After an awkward pause, I realize he actually asked me a question and is waiting for a verbal response. The man’s struck me stupid. “That’s not my style. I need to run out to my car and grab my bag.” I open the door. “Be right ba–”
In a blur of movement, Burrito makes a run for the open door. I snap out of my lust-filled haze long enough to chase after him. “Oh God! I hope he doesn’t head for the highway! What’s his name again?”
“Burrito.” Landon trails after me, slamming the door behind us to alleviate th
e challenge of more escapees.
“Burrito! Burrito!” I call out and search for the dog. “Does he know any basic commands? Recall? Anything?”
Landon doesn’t offer much by way of help, and I start to wonder how he truly feels about these dogs. “Don’t worry. He won’t run away.”
“Are you sure?” I stumble to a stop at his mailbox, huffing out a huge breath as my lungs protest the exertion and the fear.
“He has a thing for digging in the trash. He’ll be back in no time. I promise. I’d even bet my life on it.”
For the first time in my career, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake taking this gig. I didn’t count on four tiny dogs and an owner that doesn’t seem to give a shit. Most people consider their dogs as family and will do whatever it takes to achieve the end result they desire. Landon’s just…apathetic at best. “Well, from the looks of it, you really have your hands full.”
He snorts out a laugh and follows me around as I continue to search for and call the little dog. “That’s an understatement. Please tell me you can help. I refuse to take no for an answer. I’m a desperate man. Whatever you want, it’s yours. Money. Jewelry. My firstborn.”
I can’t help it. I smile wide. He’s absolutely adorable, and I can’t help but be drawn to him, even though his lack of concern about his dog rankles me deep inside.
I whistle and clap my hands. “So, you’re saying you don’t already have a firstborn? I’ll take that under advisement. But no extra money or bribery will be necessary. Of course, I can help you. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen far worse.”
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. My stomach flips over, and I really hope I’m not blushing. I turn tomato-red when I blush. Not a sexy look, even though I’m not trying to look sexy for this hottie.
I’m not.
“Sure, this is totally manageable.” I struggle to keep my tone light and professional so I can instill some confidence into this sideways situation. Dogs like a routine, and clearly, they have none in Landon’s household.
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