Something To Dream On (7 page)

“Sweet!” I shoot him a quick smile of thanks before hightailing it back. Just shy of turning the knob, I halt in my tracks. I’m still without a plan. Why does the dating game play so easily for some?

No time for wallowing. I will not let this guy know that he has control over my emotions. I will not turn into a giggling fool.

My words come out before I even finish turning the knob. “Hi! How's everyone feeling?” Etta is already on the table and playing keep away with Jensen and a squeaky toy I gave them. Jensen certainly looks happy—not at all like the guy who was freaking out over never having a dog before.

Etta sees me and tries to stand. Jensen and I both race to ask her to sit. She obeys, and then pants happily with her tail wagging to her right, over the edge of the table.

“We're great, though I think Etta’s going a little stir crazy. I borrowed my neighbor’s wagon the other day and took her out for some fresh air. All the kids came out to pet her. Etta’s going to be the hit of the block once she's active.”

The thought of this gorgeous man pulling a huge dog in a little, red wagon warms my heart. No matter how many kitten pictures I see on Facebook this year, nothing is going to compare to that image.

“Of course she’ll be a hit!” I go about my routine, which includes the ever-embarrassing taking of Etta’s temperature in a rather private place. Etta’s a trooper, but Jensen’s eyes stare widely as I lift her tail and insert the thermometer. His demure squirm makes me giggle. So much for not letting him know that he has an effect on me. “Well, she seems great.”

“So, things are going well? I’m taking good enough care of her?”

Wow. That’s too sweet. “You are taking excellent care of her. I never would have suggested you adopt her if I didn’t know you would.” Jensen turns his head towards Etta. His sigh of relief is actually visible. He’s just so lovable. “Well, the doctor will be with you in a moment.”

His brow scrunches. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I hope that doesn’t sound like I am brushing them off, but I want to save myself from further embarrassment.

Etta laps at my face when I bend over to pet her. I giggle, and Jensen follows along.

A guy just giggled? That’s so freaking cute that I am not even angry with myself for slipping. Dating games suck!

I wish them a nice day and leave. Part of me kicks myself for not having more nerve, and part of me is proud as a queen bee for not turning into a drooling fool.

The door closes and …

Wow. Was that really the same girl? I’ve spent two weeks thinking about how to impress her with how well I am taking care of Etta, and then she walks in looking like that. I’ve been telling myself that I couldn’t get her off of my mind because I was seeking approval—that I needed to know I was doing all the right things—but she just made my nervous system hum like an ungrounded mic.

She also put me in my place. I mean, she was so generous with Etta that I thought she might like me at least enough to chat. Maybe she is just a thoughtful person, which makes me all the more fascinated.

I shrug at Etta. “Some chick magnet you’re turning out to be.” She whimpers and sets her head on the table. I massage her cheek with my thumb. Damn, how I have come to adore this sweet girl. “Sorry, honey. You know I didn’t mean it. You gotta get used to me though, because if I can’t banter with a woman, even a canine one …” I kiss her head and cuddle it into my shoulder. “You know I love you, right?”

A warm tongue licks slobber onto my face, and I laugh. “Hey, Etta. Did I really giggle?” I look to the door that the girl I am now realizing I have spent two weeks pining for closed on me. “What is it about her?”

This situation has made me feel awkward, giddy, hopeful, and disappointed all at once. What did I expect? That Jensen would drop everything to run over to kiss me?

I need to learn more about him and that painting. If it were a reprint, I could totally justify that I’d seen it before. But his mom painted it? She must have copied it from something.

Maybe if I continue to play it cool, it won’t seem fangirly if I talk to him at the next appointment. I don’t want to come off as an idolizing dork. I only want a real chance.

Would trying to start an actual conversation be so bad?

“Hey, can someone get the door please?” Jensen yells from around the corner.

The paperwork I hold is dropped on my desk when I dash for the door. So much for playing it cool. Jensen turns around and his smile almost makes my hand forget how to turn a knob. Lord, I want to run my fingers through his silky hair and yank him down so he can smother me like gravy on mashed potatoes. “Everything okay?” The words choke their way out. Embarrassing!

“So far, so good. Etta’s amazing.”

An adoring “Aw!” slips out of me. My embarrassment makes me giggle. Seriously, I have to get a grip on the giggling. “She's sweet. I just adore her.”

A familiar tinkle of tags coming from behind the reception area grabs my attention. Oh, no. Not Socrates. Not now.

A hound that is as lovable as a cartoon mutt tromps and slobbers his way out of the exam area and drags his mom toward my desk. The dear thing always wants to say hello. The only problem is, he often gets a little too personal. This is not the most ideal time to run into him.

Socrates comes out and puts his paws on Jensen’s legs so he can sniff Etta while his owner heads to the counter. Jensen smiles down at him, but his attention quickly returns to me. “I’m going to drop Etta off at home and head back to work. Tonight we are going on another wagon walk. You would have the most beautiful smile if you saw how happy she gets.”

Socrates shoves his nose deeper into my crotch. Is he trying to bore his way inside? This is totally embarrassing and a dead giveaway that I am fully enamored! “I’ve got to get back to work. Call if Etta needs anything.”

“Yeah, okay.” Jensen shrugs to Etta. She gets droopy-eyed, and her ears flatten as I hold the door open and Jensen carries her out. As soon as they are out of earshot, Griffin tromps over, smacks me on the arm, and shows no mercy. “What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you liked that guy?”

“Majorly!”

His words whip out like he wants to slap me with them. “Really? Then why did you blow him off when he was asking you to join them for that walk?”

“Yeah, right! Why would he ask me?”

Lord, I must be in trouble something fierce because his hands just flew around and smacked on his hips. “Please, girl! Why wouldn't he like you?” Griffin points a finger at me and continues to shoot out finger after finger to add a dose of sass to each point. “You're fun to be around. You hooked him up with a friend he obviously loves. And you are totally beautiful, which he was subtly trying to point out.”

“He was?”

“Yes! He mentioned how beautiful your smile would be while you were walking together.
Think about it.
”

My face warms in hope, but Griffin is like a girlfriend, and girlfriends are supposed to tell you you're beautiful and be encouraging. It’s what we do.

“I dare you to go get that man. This pretending you are not interested is going to bite you in your pasty ass. Go for the kill!” Griffin flicks his hand at me as he heads off to tend to a patient. I don’t know what in the Sam Hill just happened, but I may need to rethink my strategy.

I spend the afternoon pondering my choices; show up on Jensen’s doorstep like an obvious stalker, hide in the neighbor’s bushes and then pretend to just happen to be in the area like a crazed stalker, or look up his number and call like a sane person.

On the sixth digit, I stop. He didn't actually get around to inviting me, so am I crashing his walk? This is weird.

No wussing out! Just go the half-chicken route and send a text.

“Hi. It's Lizetta. I can't stop smiling over the thought of Etta in that wagon. Mind if I join you on that walk tonight?”

How long is considered non-obsessive to wait for a reply? A minute? Ten minutes? Three days? My stupid lack of self-esteem tells me to pack it up and go home. My shoulder dips at the weight of my purse just as my phone buzzes.
“Sure! Head on over.”

Seriously? Not only was the response positive, it was fast—and he did it with an exclamation mark! Maybe Griffin was right.

Hold up there, Lizetta. You're about to walk a dog, not get wined and dined. Keep those expectations realistic.

Oh, screw you, brain! Is it so wrong to allow a little hope for once? I swear, once one person damages your self-esteem, it’s a slippery slope to Stupidville.

Without giving it another thought, I head out.

Although the distance between work and Jensen’s apartment isn’t great, the difference in the environment is vast. It doesn’t take long to go from modern shopping centers and tall office buildings to dry hills and outdated strip malls. A quick trek up a hill later, and I’m on a long stretch of road that may not have been paved since the automobile was created. This town is strange. On this end it is practically desert, then you shoot through a mini-Metropolis and land in the lush canyon where I live. Though it is not far from San Francisco, Fremont is like a mirage in the middle of nowhere.

This … This is … Okay, this is just weird.

I’m in a lawn chair, staring at Etta in a little red wagon that barely fits her, and waiting for a girl that makes feedback run through my nerves. “Seriously, Etta, what is it about her? You know she’s not my type, right?”

I swear Etta is cocking an eyebrow and asking me to elaborate.

“Well, she’s pretty and all, and her eyes dance with life, and wow, that hair. And that giggle! But … Okay, I don’t want to sound like an ass, but every other girl that has caught my eye has been, well … has been a little more on the athletic side.”

That’s a flat out lie. They have been skinny, regardless of how they got that way. Honestly, I don’t know how I would feel about those few extra pounds if I were handling them, but Lizetta is a gorgeous girl who makes my heart flap like a dying fish.

Etta shrugs. Like I swear she freakin’ shrugs as if to say, “So? They have also all been tarts.” Sometimes living with Etta is like living with my mother.

My head slams back into the chair. My poor mother. When will I face myself enough to talk to her? The only requirement to return to her life was to hit that ninety-day sobriety mark. I’ve accomplished that and so much more. Still, I was such a monster. She raised me better than to be a heartless screw-up who basically abused her.

But I have faced that aspect of my life. I’ve looked in a mirror and called myself out on being an abuser of both substances and people. I’ve called myself a heartless womanizer. I’ve listed the names of everyone I hurt and why, all while looking at my reflection. Still I can’t call my own mother—the woman who would forgive me faster and deeper than I could ever forgive myself.

And there lies the problem—forgiving myself.

A car pulls up, and my heart races in anticipation of seeing Lizetta. When she steps out of the car, I stand to greet her and my knees weaken.