All of a sudden, Connie comes running into the kitchen at the smell of fish. Let me tell you that there’s nothing like a good old can of T to the U-N-A to bring a crowd.
Connie is a little white poodle, and she was born with her two front legs as tiny little stumps. They never developed, and as a result, she’s learned to walk on her back legs. I actually have a specially made cart for her, so she doesn’t have to walk around like that all the time, but she doesn’t really like it that much in the house. When we’re outside, though, she’s all for it. It never fails to give everyone a start to see a tiny little fluff ball come walking in on her back legs like a little curly person.
“Oh, you’re hungry too?” I sigh and open up the cupboard again for a second can of tuna. After I pour half into the cat bowl, which is already pretty much empty, I feed Connie the rest. She gulps it down eagerly, and just as I’m thinking about the rest of the crowd, feeling sorry for them because they didn’t get a treat, the doorbell rings.
“God. That has to be you know who.”
The cats and even Connie—who normally loves the door with a passion usually reserved for stinky shoes and chewing the crotch region out of my pants and panties (yes, she really does, and no, I have no idea why, and also no, she didn’t outgrow it even though she’s not a puppy anymore)—continue eating, not at all bothered in the slightest.
“Guess I’m on my own. Thanks, guys. He could be an ax murderer, you know.”
The silence in the kitchen tells me what everyone thinks about that. Yeah, so what if ax murderers probably don’t use the doorbell? They’d likely just ax the door straight down, chop it to bits, and walk right in. Or just walk right in and skip chopping the door to bits, since I guess chopping would be redundant.
Anyway, I have no choice. If it’s my new roommate, I can’t just not let him in because I know Pappy S would want me to. He would want me to let him in. Even if this is a setup, I pretty much have no choice but to go along with it. It’s not my house, after all, and I would never call my great-grandfather a liar, even if he does have a track record of trying to get me settled down. Why can’t a person be settled on their own? What’s wrong with being proudly single?
Not to worry. I have a couple of booby traps set up just for Mr. Wrong. I know I’ll never meet Mr. Right, so I choose to think about any potential person trying to fill that role as Mr. Wrong. They’re all wrong. Men. All of them.
Taking a deep breath, I walk to the front door, my trepidation building with every single step. I’m wearing a casual outfit today—jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of an opossum on the front and a quote about them being awesome because, you know…duh.
As soon as I throw open the door, my suspicions are pretty much confirmed. Yup, the guy’s Mr. Wrong all right because there’s no way this isn’t a setup. Pappy S has a specific type. Or rather, he seems to think I do. His type for me is tall, built, and handsome. Inevitably, most men who fit that description are generally assholios.
My brain thinks so too, but I have to admit, extremely grudgingly with a snarl like a junkyard dog, that my body isn’t so inclined to agree.
This guy? He’s tall. Like way over six feet, and he’s built like a freaking truck. His shoulders probably have a separate career doing long-hauling, while his biceps probably take the short hauls. He’s athletic with a huge chest, and he’s so jacked that I can see the details of his glorious abs straight through the dark gray t-shirt he’s rocking. Oh, and those jeans? They’re the kind of thing guys buy slightly torn and worn straight from the store. They give off the impression that he lives and works in them—a hard, blue-collar, slightly badass kind of living. Oh, and they’re also designed to cup the bum in a deliciously suggestive way. Maybe the legs, too, just a little. You know, because guys' legs can sometimes be a thing. Overall suggestive? Yes, that’s right! Because they suggest that the male bum is the best thing known to humanity. I can bet my bottom dollar—haha—that the suggestion isn’t wrong for this guy.
I raise my eyes to a face that is god-like—chiseled from something really hard like pure concrete with a little gravel added to the mix. His dark eyes twinkle deviously because he knows I’m staring, and his hard jaw, sporting just the right amount of stubble, sets in a humorous tilt.