Well, except for the stalker with the dog.
A wry grin lifted his lips as he scanned the immediate area. It looked like he’d finally lost her. During the few glances he’d snuck, he’d noticed her trim figure in shorts and sexy tank, with just the right amount of curves up top, and a bouncing ponytail of shiny black hair that would reach all the way down her back when set free. He loved long hair.
But whoa, he was getting off track. Between the bikers he’d seen her chumming with, and the tatts on her arms, she appeared to walk farther on the wild side than he was comfortable with these days. Hell, she even had one on her neck…her slim, delicate, tanned neck. Wild. Maybe crazy was more like it the way she’d followed him around with that hulking monster of a dog.
Wild and crazy, and pretty to boot…he felt a little zing nip at his pulse. Yeah, he was the crazy one now. He was done with women like that, and, yes, he knew all about them, he’d grown up with them. A twinge of pain in his back made him wince, despite the fact the sensation remained only in his head. Though the wound had healed weeks ago, it kept reminding him of all he’d left behind—the big city fast track with the crime and the gangs.
No more looking over his shoulder, and wild women didn’t fit into the nice, quiet, stable life he planned to build in this town. No matter how pretty they were.
“Sugar! Heel!”
Wes started to look over his shoulder at the sound of that sharp command called out so close behind him, but he never
made it past the pitching mound. Next thing he knew, he laid face first in the grass, his hamburger smashed against his chest and a heavy weight on his back. He turned his head to the side so he could breath and something wet and warm doused his face from chin to eyebrow.
“Ugh,” he managed, concluding pretty quick that a dog stood on his back—a large, whining, panting monster of a dog. He hunched a shoulder and wiped the slobber as best he could, but the beast did it again.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
He twisted his head to look in the direction of the voice. Slim ankles and tanned legs registered before that side of his face got swiped. That’s it—he preferred to eat dirt.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman continued, “she just pulled right—”
“Get it off me,” he said into the grass.
“What? I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Wes turned his head with a frustrated growl, which only excited the dog into a licking frenzy. Its massive paws dug into his shoulder blades as Wes clenched his teeth to keep its tongue out of his mouth.
“Get. It. Off.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” He felt her tug on the leash. “Sugar, heel.”
He mentally rolled his eyes. Obviously, that was a useless command.
“Sugar, come on. Here, baby. Sugar.”
The dog went still and made a sound deep in its throat. Wes frowned when the animal did it again. That’s when it dawned on him the woman’s pleas had become urgent.
“No, Sugar. Off. Sugar! Come!”
That didn’t sound good. He fought to free his arms from under his body and succeeded just as the brute made a horrible retching noise and something spilled onto his back—something very liquid-y and warm that spread even as it seeped through his clothes.
“Sugarrrrrr,” the woman groaned.
Silence fell except for the dog’s panting.
Wes felt his own stomach rebel. “Tell me a dog didn’t just puke on my back.”
“I am so sorry. She stole Emma’s ice cream cone, but she’s lactose intolerant and I was trying to get her home, but then she saw you and…well…”
He realized the dog’s weight no longer held him down and pushed up onto his knees before sitting back on his heels. As he looked down at the ketchup and mustard semicircle staining his white shirt, he heard pieces of upchuck plop onto the grass behind him. The dog began to gag again. He wanted to gag.
Wes shrugged out of his suit jacket and held it up to survey the damage as he stood. The woman shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head and leaned to the side to look with him. Her eyes were wide as she held a hand over her mouth—and nose—and stared at the dog vomit dripping from his jacket. He gave an uncomfortable squirm at the feel of his shirt plastered to his back, because he hadn’t been sweating that bad.
“Well, this is just great.” He shook his head. “Now what—”
The dog lurched forward. Wes jumped back, flinging his arms wide, but not before more puke streamed onto his dress shoes. Hands batted at his left arm so hard his jacket went flying.