The Truth

I look to Ricky for clarification, hoping he knows what she’s talking about, but he throws his hands out wide and shrugs.

Tiffany continues rambling in worried tones. “Where’re my clothes?”

“The washer,” I comment numbly, realizing I never got the load into the dryer. “Open what?”

But she’s not answering. She’s gone into her head as her lips work, talking to herself as she looks around, grabbing her heels from where I set them by the door and slipping one on.

Yes, with Elle’s sweats and my T-shirt.

“Shit, shit, shit. Three minutes to get downstairs, two to hail a cab . . .” She glances toward the window and then back at her other shoe, shoving her foot into it like some reverse Cinderella. “Ten to get downtown, and I’ll only be fifteen minutes late opening.”

“Can I take you somewhere?” I ask, but she’s not listening. Or at least, not to me.

She’s deep in conversation with herself, though not aloud now. But the way she’s shaking her head tells me she’s answering a question she asked herself. She’s almost out the door when she looks back, remembering that she has an audience. “Thanks so much, Da–Daniel? Uh, Mr. Stryker?”

She sighs, her eyes rolling in exasperation as though that name slip is what made this entire situation awkward and not the previous twelve hours. She slides past Ricky, who’s still standing in the doorway, and bolts for the stairs, skipping the elevator in favor of speed.

And in a flash, she’s gone.

I look at Ricky, who holds his hands up and lifts his brows high. “I didn’t see a thing, hear a thing, and definitely don’t know a thing. I also have absolutely zero questions.”

I wish that were true for me. I have so many questions.

But the only thing that’ll help me is the run I was already scheduled to go on. “Okay . . . give me a few minutes to change clothes, and then let’s run. Oh, and remind me to text the mobile detailer. I really, really need to get my SUV cleaned out.”

Chapter 4

Tiffany

Ace’s business started like a lot of businesses, out of his apartment. And for the first year, that was all he needed. I don’t know how he dealt with getting fur out of the hair trap in the bathtub, but he made it work for his grooming clients. But when he expanded into the doggie daycare, he needed space, both inside and out, for the dogs to run and play, but also to sleep and eat.

Luckily, I was able to open The Bone Zone only ten minutes late after telling the Uber driver I’d pay double if he could beat the estimated time on the directions app. He did, and I did, plus a tip.

Since then, I gave up on the heels hours ago and have been padding around barefoot, praying I don’t step on anything wet or squishy on the smoothly polished linoleum floors. And I’m now lying on the hard, and thankfully dry, floor with the dogs, burying my face in fluffy fur and my embarrassment in sweet puppy breath.

They don’t care that I’ve got a hangover or that my breath is technically a chemical weapon according to the United Nations. They’re just happy I was only a few minutes late and they can play today.

Thankfully, the couple of dog owners who were waiting when I arrived were also understanding when they saw me roll up in an Uber with a messy bun, oversized clothes, and heels.

“Been there, done that, dear. Good for you,” one lady had said as she handed me the leash to her fluffball of a dog, who’d been eyeing me with a lot more judgment than his owner. In fact, Fluffy had looked at me like I was downright suspicious until we got inside and I found the treats. He was an easy sell-out in the end, though, only costing one pumpkin spice treat to decide I could do whatever I want with my life, even if it would fuck everything up. But nope, he wasn’t judging.

I scan the room for the millionth time, making sure everyone’s getting along and sharing the space while I nurse my hangover with the filtered water Ace buys in bulk for the dogs.

“What the hell happened last night?” I ask the white, furry face in front of me. Miss Havisham, the poodle, not the book character, shakes her head, the poufy ponytail on top of her head flopping with the movement as if to say, I don’t know, but it was probably a man’s fault.

If only that were true. Details later on are fuzzy, but I know I’m the one who drank that donut disaster. I should be worried about my staff, all of whom drank those donut things too. And I do hope they got home before the effects kicked in.