I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and tossed on a sweatshirt, winding my bed-head hair into an unemployed-girl updo before yanking on my sneakers and finding ChaCha’s leash. I did a few obligatory stretches before striding proudly out the front door with ChaCha prancing in front of me in all her pink-studded-collar glory. We were three-quarters down the first city block when ChaCha abruptly flopped over onto her little doggie side, closed her eyes, and started snoring.
I gently tugged at her collar. “Come on, ChaCha. It’s time for a walk, girl! We’re still walking! Come on, girl!”
“The little thing is pooped,” I heard.
I whirled around and grinned when I saw him: tall, with Men’s Health muscles, short, ash-blond hair that spiked up around his scalp, a deep olive complexion highlighted by the flecks of gold sparkling in his hazel eyes. If my brand-new dog hadn’t been playing dead on the sidewalk I may have recognized him.
“We’ve hardly gone a block!” I said.
The guy leaned down, his polo shirt sliding back and revealing a strong neck and traps that could choke a pony. He uncapped his water bottle and poured some out; ChaCha sprang back to life, popped onto all fours, and drank gratefully.
“She was just thirsty.”
I felt like a heel. “I feed her and give her water. She had water before we left, I swear. It was even bottled—no tap!” I said, certain that CPS—ChaCha Protective Services—was going to spring out from behind the potted palm and nab me for tiny animal cruelty.
“I’m Will Sherman,” the guy said, standing up and offering me a hand to shake. “And I believe that you’re a good pet parent.”
I shook his hand, oddly grateful for the positive judgment from a complete stranger.
“I’m Sophie. And you’ve got an accent.”
Will smiled, his cheeks tinting a shade redder. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
I liked the way he stretched out the words, the relaxed lilt of his voice.
“Yep, it’s true. I’m from Oregon.” We both did that mildly uncomfortable small-talk chuckle. “By way of England.”
“Ah.” I smiled into his bright eyes, cocked my head, and then my stomach started to sink. “You look familiar.” My mental Rolodex started to go and I tried to place him—with a horn, from the UDA office; with a knife from one of my many near-death experiences; with a fra-paccino from the local Starbucks. I prayed for memory to lodge itself in the normalcy of a Starbucks but nothing stuck. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
Will grinned. “Wow. And I was going to use the ‘if I could rearrange the alphabet’ line.”
I felt my brows furrow. “What?”
“I would put ‘u’ and ‘I’ together. You know, if I could rearrange the alphabet.”
“What?” I said again.
“You weren’t picking me up? You know, with the ‘don’t I know you?’ thing? That wasn’t a line?”
I felt the corners of my lips pull down. “No! Geez, no. I really thought I knew you. Or had seen you or something.”
Will looked away, sheepish. “Sorry.”
“So, do I know you in a non-flirtational, non-coming-on-to-you kind of way?”
Will frowned. “Well, when you say it like that you take all the fun out of it.”
“Never mind.” I bent to scoop ChaCha up, but Will stopped me with a soft hand on my arm.
“Sorry. You might have seen me around.” Will shrugged. “I’m local—now. We’ve probably run into each other a hundred times and never even noticed. It’s a small city.” He grinned; his teeth were shockingly white and straight, except for two on the very bottom that crossed a little, giving him a semblance of little-boy cute.
I forced a smile. “I guess. Anyway, thanks for the water. Seems to have done the trick.”
ChaCha was nuzzling against Will’s pant leg now, sitting on his shoe and looking up adoringly at him.
“Ready to finish our walk, girl?”
ChaCha popped onto all fours and trotted around my ankles, winding her leash around my calves and into a pink-studded tourniquet.
“I think your dog is trying to tell you something.”
I looked down at ChaCha, who did indeed look like she was trying to tell me something as she sat down, smugly licking her genitals. I stepped out of my leash lasso and scooped up my traitorous pup.
“You may have won this one, dog,” I told her with a nuzzle, “but when we get home, you’re hitting the treadmill.” I looked back at Will and offered a friendly smile. “Thanks again.”
“Sure.”