bragging rights would you have to an assignee still in high school?
Maybe he changed his mind when he saw the stupid picture of me in his sister's bikini, thinking "too young," although Jesse didn't seem to mind. But then again, I might have been nothing more than an afternoon snack to "Mr. Rock Star." He hadn't called either, which in all likelihood meant he'd found someone whose kisses curled his toes.
My mental muse spoke up. Stop obsessing about the Mason twins. You have finals to cram for and the last thing you need is boy drama. I caught the reflection of a girl from the mirror in the corner. She appeared preoccupied, possibly with Jordan's eyes, or Jesse's lips. The poster child of a sappy teenage girl caught in a romantic delusion. Above the mirror I'd tacked a poster of my favorite rock band, "Hopeless," their title fitting the current chapter of my life.
I made my way to the kitchen in search of comfort food . The first rays of dawn peeked through the lace curtains and tiny dust particles swirled in the pale lemon shaft. Choosing to drown my self-pity in gallons of caffeine, I headed for the beverage maker. A message rolled over the digital display above.
Mars—on emergency call—will be gone most of the morning—let Muffy out—love Dad.
Rick belonged to a dying breed of veterinarians who still believed in making house calls. He also had a soft spot for strays, oftentimes keeping them until he found them homes. Muffy, a large, black and white spotted Great Dane abandoned on the doorstep of his clinic, was the latest rescue. Her home immediately became ours, and letting Muffy out qualified, by most standards, as an Olympic Event.
I didn't bother to change out of my boxer shorts and knit camisole. This early, no one was outside. Besides, the trees out front would hide me for the short duration of the morning chore. I removed the leash from its hook and inhaled deep before opening the laundry room door. Muffy lifted on two legs, draping her front paws over my shoulders. Her rambunctious tail knocked over the clothes hamper as she squirmed excitedly while I attached the leash to her collar.
I held tight to the railing on the back porch, the pressure of the leash cutting into my fingers. Muffy bolted for the nearest bush and I barely realigned my hands in the strap before she started for the stone steps at the end of the front walk.
Out the corner of my eye, I spied a white car approaching. I feared for both our lives if Muffy darted across the street for the cat napping on the trunk on Mr. Baxter's car. My pleas became lost in the morning air when the cat yowled and Muffy leaped over the steps. The leash snapped, setting Muffy free and launching me forward. One knee smacked the cold pavement of the sidewalk and my head, the hard ground—luckily covered with two week's worth of overgrown grass. Brakes screeched. I yelled Muffy's name seconds before my world went black.
The aroma of coffee curled in my senses and a cool dampness spread across my forehead. Impulsively I rose, immediately regretting the choice when a sudden wave of nausea attacked.
"Ugh, I'm going to puke!"
"Wait, don't move." Whoever belonged to the male voice pressed an alcohol doused cotton ball to my nose. "Lie back and breathe slowly until the queasiness passes." He took my hand and applied pressure to the fleshy web between my thumb and finger—two odd tricks, but together seemed to work.
I opened my eyes slower this time, discovering the kind voice belonged to some gorgeous boy. A different kind of unsettling warmed in my stomach with the gentle way he held my hand. Something about him felt…familiar.
"Better?"
I nodded, both confused and fascinated, but before I could ask his name, a sudden warm wetness splashed across my cheek. "Muffy! You're alive…and a very bad dog."
The cute stranger spoke at his watch, pretending to dictate to a recording device. "Note: The patient has identified the small horse seated on the floor next
Maybe he changed his mind when he saw the stupid picture of me in his sister's bikini, thinking "too young," although Jesse didn't seem to mind. But then again, I might have been nothing more than an afternoon snack to "Mr. Rock Star." He hadn't called either, which in all likelihood meant he'd found someone whose kisses curled his toes.
My mental muse spoke up. Stop obsessing about the Mason twins. You have finals to cram for and the last thing you need is boy drama. I caught the reflection of a girl from the mirror in the corner. She appeared preoccupied, possibly with Jordan's eyes, or Jesse's lips. The poster child of a sappy teenage girl caught in a romantic delusion. Above the mirror I'd tacked a poster of my favorite rock band, "Hopeless," their title fitting the current chapter of my life.
I made my way to the kitchen in search of comfort food . The first rays of dawn peeked through the lace curtains and tiny dust particles swirled in the pale lemon shaft. Choosing to drown my self-pity in gallons of caffeine, I headed for the beverage maker. A message rolled over the digital display above.
Mars—on emergency call—will be gone most of the morning—let Muffy out—love Dad.
Rick belonged to a dying breed of veterinarians who still believed in making house calls. He also had a soft spot for strays, oftentimes keeping them until he found them homes. Muffy, a large, black and white spotted Great Dane abandoned on the doorstep of his clinic, was the latest rescue. Her home immediately became ours, and letting Muffy out qualified, by most standards, as an Olympic Event.
I didn't bother to change out of my boxer shorts and knit camisole. This early, no one was outside. Besides, the trees out front would hide me for the short duration of the morning chore. I removed the leash from its hook and inhaled deep before opening the laundry room door. Muffy lifted on two legs, draping her front paws over my shoulders. Her rambunctious tail knocked over the clothes hamper as she squirmed excitedly while I attached the leash to her collar.
I held tight to the railing on the back porch, the pressure of the leash cutting into my fingers. Muffy bolted for the nearest bush and I barely realigned my hands in the strap before she started for the stone steps at the end of the front walk.
Out the corner of my eye, I spied a white car approaching. I feared for both our lives if Muffy darted across the street for the cat napping on the trunk on Mr. Baxter's car. My pleas became lost in the morning air when the cat yowled and Muffy leaped over the steps. The leash snapped, setting Muffy free and launching me forward. One knee smacked the cold pavement of the sidewalk and my head, the hard ground—luckily covered with two week's worth of overgrown grass. Brakes screeched. I yelled Muffy's name seconds before my world went black.
The aroma of coffee curled in my senses and a cool dampness spread across my forehead. Impulsively I rose, immediately regretting the choice when a sudden wave of nausea attacked.
"Ugh, I'm going to puke!"
"Wait, don't move." Whoever belonged to the male voice pressed an alcohol doused cotton ball to my nose. "Lie back and breathe slowly until the queasiness passes." He took my hand and applied pressure to the fleshy web between my thumb and finger—two odd tricks, but together seemed to work.
I opened my eyes slower this time, discovering the kind voice belonged to some gorgeous boy. A different kind of unsettling warmed in my stomach with the gentle way he held my hand. Something about him felt…familiar.
"Better?"
I nodded, both confused and fascinated, but before I could ask his name, a sudden warm wetness splashed across my cheek. "Muffy! You're alive…and a very bad dog."
The cute stranger spoke at his watch, pretending to dictate to a recording device. "Note: The patient has identified the small horse seated on the floor next
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