What Lovers Do(18)

“I have friends who golf with me.” My dad. He’s the only one who golfs with me.

“Maybe …” He narrows his eyes.

The bartender serves our drinks.

Shep takes a sip of beer. “But do you have friends who look at you the way I look at you?”

My lips wrap around the straw, and they don’t let go until I figure out how to reply to his comment. “How do you look at me?”

“Like my dogs look at me.”

I laugh. “You think I have treats in my pocket for you?”

“No. Well, do you have treats in your pocket? Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine a better trait in a woman than carrying treats in her pocket.”

I giggle, shaking my head.

He winks at me. “No. What I meant was … when I see you, I get really excited. And I can’t stop staring at you and waiting to see what you’ll say to me. Hoping it’s something that lets me know you’re excited to see me too.”

Whoa … I need to get out of here.

“Well…” I play it cool and mess with the corner of the cocktail napkin “…I’m not sure if my friends wag their tails when they see me, but we usually hug and say ‘hi’ in a high-pitched squeal.”

“That’s good.” He hides behind his glass bottle, pausing before taking a long swig. “So tell me why you’re not dating. Not that I’m interested in dating you. I’m asking for the rest of the single, straight male population.”

“Oh? Is there a weekly ‘Single, Straight Male’ newsletter that goes out? Are you like Editor in Chief?”

He takes a long pull of his beer and rubs his lips together. “Something like that.”

I drum my fingers on the side of the glass, smearing the condensation. “Can I be honest without not being honest with you?” I glance over his shoulder for a second, organizing the thoughts that get jumbled before they make it to my tongue. “Maybe it’s not dishonesty. Maybe it’s lack of transparency.” My gaze returns to him. “If you’re not wanting to date me, which you’re clearly not, and you have a friend, albeit a man toddler friend, and I have another friend who I share my darkest secrets with, then can we be friends who share the good stuff? Just the good stuff? Can we be each other’s escape from the bad stuff? I need an escape right now. So we don’t have to lie to each other. We simply aren’t transparent about everything.”

Most ridiculous idea ever!

Shep studies me through a series of slow blinks and another swig of his beer while I maintain a low level of feigned confidence, my fingers drumming a little faster on my glass.

“But seriously, are you married?”

I shake my head.

“Engaged?”

Headshake.

“Betrothed to another? Are you a princess running away from her royal duties? Has your future husband been offered a dowery?”

I snort and bite my lips for a few beats before nodding. “You caught me. That’s the one.”

Shep smirks. “If I had a dime for every time I’ve met a betrothed woman with a dowery …”

I playfully nudge his knee. “You’d have exactly ten cents.”

“Give or take.” He shrugs. “So being your friend means I get the watered-down version of you?”

After sucking on my straw, I gulp while shaking my head. “Absolutely not. You get the best version of me. You get what my patients get. When I arrive in the exam room, I’m happy. We converse.” I wink. “We chitchat about the good stuff in life. Nobody unloads a dump truck of unsolvable problems. And life is good. It’s like customers showing up at Wag Your Tail. It’s all about the friendly interaction. As crazy as it sounds, but it’s no less true, we often give the best of ourselves to complete strangers or acquaintances.”

Shep nods slowly, the cogs and gears at work in his handsome head.

I shrug, my smile falling into a more somber expression. “It’s all I have to offer right now. I’m sorry.”

“You’re really not going to tell me why you’re not dating?”

Concealing my smile with twisted lips, I shrug. “I like being mysterious.”

“Are you questioning your sexuality?”

“Not yet.” I chuckle.

“Can I get you something off the menu?” the bartender asks.

I study the happy hour menu of five items. “We’ll take one of everything.”

“You got it.” The bartender snags our menus.

“Hungry?” Shep’s eyebrows slide up his forehead. He has the most perfect features. Handsome and well-groomed (like a dog), yet intentionally rugged with his shadow of dark facial hair (also like a dog). And those brown curls around his ears … I want to slide my fingers through them.

“Starving.” I grin.

“Where do you put it?” He sneaks another quick scan of my body.

“I have a thing for over ordering. Leftovers are my jam.”

“I’m here. There won’t be any leftovers.”

I squint at him. He ignores my glare.

“Do you have family around here?” I ask.

“Is that an approved topic?”

I shrug. “Only if your family brings you joy.”