“Yeah.” Margo grins, pulls away, and then jumps on my back. “Wild and free, right up until they meet the right person to tame them.”
“Oh I’m still wild, babe,” I say, starting to jog with her on my back, her arms tightening around my neck, her face on my shoulder, cheek to cheek. “You’re just gonna have to get wild with me now.”
I put her down on the ground and turn around to face her. “When are you gonna stop being stubborn and just move in with me? I know you love sharing your place with Louise, but with her work hours on that detective show, she’s hardly even there. And my bed gets lonely without you.” I pause and man up. “I want to go to sleep every night with you and wake up every morning next to you.”
She grins. “You do make a mean eggs benedict.”
“Should I take that as a yes?”
“I love you. Yes.”
I scoop her up in my arms and listen to the sound of her laughter in my ear as I run like the maniac I am toward the parking lot.
“Good. Because there’s something fuzzy and orange waiting for you at home and I didn’t want to raise her all by myself.”
“You got me a kitten?!” she squeals.
“I had a feeling you might be open to adopting one.” I set her down at the car and she throws her arms around me, nuzzling against my neck in a way that gives me even more ideas about what might please her. “Now let’s get home. I’ve got some plans for you after I get you out of that flight suit.”
I pull her toward me for a kiss, and I make it very unprofessional.
The end
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Extra Credit by Poppy Dunne
Check out the first chapter of Extra Credit by Poppy Dunne!
Chapter 1
Chelle
William Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Not bad for a man in the sixteenth century, but if he were around in today’s Los Angeles, he might have said “All Runyon Canyon’s a stage, and all the men and women who work out there are hot. Like say, anywhere from a seven to a nine point five. Please don’t interrupt me, my agent’s calling.”
Will wouldn’t have made it in LA, though. Too many out of left field plot twists.
Still, Runyon Canyon’s perfect for me in the here and now, right as dawn is lighting up the sky. It’s beautiful, cool, and I get the place to myself. No shirtless douchebros trying to hit on me, no veganites with penicillin dairy free milkshakes judging me because I once—once—ate a sandwich. Just me, the gorgeous trail, and my little dog Archie. Archie’s a mutt rescue. Not sure what the mix is, but probably a combination of dachshund and Gremlin. He’s got big, flappy ears, a waggly little butt, and if I feed him after midnight, he poops on everything.
As I run up the canyon trail, Archie skipping and yipping ahead of me, I focus my thoughts on the day ahead. Because it’s the Chelle Richardson show, ladies and gentlemen, pulling into another over-privileged, ritzy elementary school. The place is called Bay of Dreams, all the way up in Laurel Canyon. You know, one of those places the hippies found and infested back in the 70s. Well, now it’s a probiotic day school for the richest and crunchiest Angelenos and their kale in the lunchbox children. Considering the demographic I’m going to work for, I’m guessing there’ll be three kids in the class named Kale.
But you know what? As long as the kids are happy, bright-eyed, and passionate about putting on the best version of Jesus Christ Superstar a ten-year-old can create, I’m giddy to work with them. I love every aspect of theater, and nothing’s better than seeing a kid’s face light up when she takes her center stage moment as Candlestick #5 in Beauty and the Beast.
That’s what I do, what I’ve been doing the five years since I graduated Northwestern with a B.A in Communications in my eager, sweaty grip. I travel from town to town, school to school, setting up shop for a few months to put on a fabulous production with a bunch of adorable kids. Then the face paint gets wiped off, the auditorium doors shut, and I get a not-so-hefty paycheck and a friendly, “Thanks, we’ll call if we need you again.” Nothing permanent yet.
Which, to be honest, is kind of a pain. At twenty-eight, I’m hitting the age where being a redheaded lady who bounces around the country with a suitcase and teaching lessons Xeroxed the night before is no longer that attractive. I’d love to settle down, get put on the full time faculty of a nice elementary school, and spend my life happily showing kids the marvelous joys of community theater. I mean, it’s what I went to school for. It’s what I trained for.
As Archie does three zooms around a rock and then pees on it with crazy puppy excitement, I think about taking my little portable pooch and heading back out to my parents’. That’d be tough at the best of times, but considering what my folks do…well, let’s just say that putting on a prepubescent version of Hair looks downright conservative.
Archie puts his little nose in the air, smelling something frantically. Then he charges ahead, kicking up clouds of dust and yapping his flappy-eared head right off. I take off after him, and then stop. Because I hear something ahead—a man’s voice shouting, and damn if it doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble.
“Shit! Shit! Hold on!” he yells. I take off, images of heroic rescue leaping into my mind as I go. I may be five foot nothing with Ronald McDonald hair, but this heart beats Gryffindor scarlet. I was on Pottermore. I know the drill.
I make a turn in the road, and find myself face to…well, not face, but face-to-back with a tall man, one hand to his ear. The shirt he’s wearing has a V of sweat down the back, and you’ll pardon me for noticing it’s a very nice back. I’m pretty sure I can pick out every definition of muscle. He’s like a sweaty Donatello carving.
“Are you okay?” I ask, running around to look at him. From the way he’s got a hand to his ear, the poor man might be suffering from a ruptured eardrum. That or, you know…he’s on a Bluetooth. Yelling at somebody.
“Ken, you can’t be serious. How can the Dow be that low at opening bell?” he asks, his brow furrowed. There’s a majorly incredulous look going down here. He’s tall, so tall he doesn’t seem to notice me. Then again, most normal-sized people don’t seem to notice me—I am but a ginger hobbit.
“Sorry. Thought you were in a crisis,” I say again, right down here at like his navel. My god, this man is tall. And as the sun begins to crest the canyon, I notice how tall is also translating to hot. In fact, he…