Charming as Puck(16)

I snort when I should really defend his honor, which sends the scent of cow patty to the back of my throat, and now I’m choking on shit odor.

“Eh, he’s an ass,” he calls back. “He deserves it.”

And that right there is why he’s so irresistible.

Just when you think his ego can’t get any bigger and more unbearable, he goes and deflates it himself.

“I heard his grandmother used to live down the street,” Mrs. Ostermeijer says. “Back before I moved in, and everyone says the same thing. That he’s an ass. My, you have such a good handle on that cow.”

“She’s a dog, ma’am. And thank you. And everybody? I heard at least half the neighborhood loved that goalie guy.”

“No, everybody,” Mrs. Ostermeijer confirms. “Some people were just nicer about it. Or so I heard.”

I finally get the cow patty scooped into the bag and straighten. The thing must weigh five pounds.

“Here, let me,” Nick says, and before I know it, he’s swinging the cow poop bag and I have all four leashes—and Tiger—back in my arms.

“Put the shit down,” I hiss.

“What a sweet gentleman,” Mrs. Ostermeijer croons. “Kami, that one’s a keeper.”

He grins at me, still swinging the poop bag that he’s undoubtedly going to shove into someone’s locker. Or into their helmet.

I need to call Felicity and have her warn Ares.

“I’m a keeper,” he tells me.

“I have a date tonight,” I reply.

His brows crinkle and settle back into smirk mode almost as fast. “With who?”

“None of your business.”

“Where?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“You’re going to the zoo, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m going to the zoo. And we’re going to ride the zoo train and make out in the tunnel.”

His knuckles go white around the bag handles. I tell myself not to read into it.

“He probably kisses like an anteater,” he declares.

“Have you ever kissed an anteater?”

I regret the question instantly, because he’s smiling at me again, and I will never be immune to the magnetism and charm that oozes out of that smile. You’d think with the carved cheekbones and the square jaw and the growing stubble, that smile would look more predatory than boyish, but it’s everything.

It’s sexy and tempting and full of a promise that if I let him back in, I won’t regret it.

My body wouldn’t regret it. It’s humming in anticipation of having those long, strong fingers stroking and teasing my skin and my breasts and my pussy and my ass.

I love it when he strokes my ass.

“I’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t do again,” he says, now working that smoky bedroom voice too, “but I’ve done a few things I’d like to do more of.”

I yank hard on Sugarbear’s leash, and she finally moves. “I need to go.”

Nick tosses the bag of poop into the back seat of his Cherokee. I cringe, because I can only imagine where it will end up.

My dogs are still overeager to love all over him, so they’re tangling up their leashes to get to him as he joins us again.

“I miss you,” he says quietly.

I miss who I always thought you could be.

I swallow hard before I can force the words I know I need to say. “It’s time to move on.”

“But we’re friends. We can stay friends.”

“Sure. We can stay friends.” Friends who don’t see each other. Who don’t call.

Who don’t go to each other’s hockey games.

Dammit, I’m going to miss watching hockey. Maybe I’ll cheer for the Seattle Badgers instead. They’re all the way across the country. I’m in no danger of meeting and falling for one of their players.

“Are you brushing me off?” he asks.

“What? No. That would be rude.”

“Kami.”

We reach the short sidewalk leading up to my little two-story house with the powder blue siding and the white trim, and I do my best to rein in my dogs. “Treats inside!”

All three of the canine dogs bolt up the steps. The bovine dog looks at me like I’ve just run over her pet bunny.

Like she knows I’m trying to brush Nick off.

“Are you seriously keeping the cow here?” he asks again.

“I’m fostering her while I look for a more permanent solution.”

“What about that place you took the goats over the summer?”

“Full.”

“And the donkey—”

“It ate through three fences and they asked me to not call them again.”

He tries to hide a grin, but he utterly fails. “Wasn’t there some farm that took those baby bunnies?”

“The owner died and his kids sold the bunnies to be made into fur coats.”

He has the decency to look horrified, so I don’t tell him that I’m lying, and that all the baby bunnies were actually adopted by families, though the process took a couple months.

“So, yes, I have a new dog who needs a bigger home, but I refuse to let her go until I know she won’t be turned into ground beef. And if any of you ever use an animal in a prank again, you’ll have to deal with something way worse than penguins invading the ice.”