“Tulsa.”
“They couldn’t find someone in Texas?” I smile.
He laughs and says, “I’m a good value,” he says. “Just starting out.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Hmmm,” I say, looking for laugh lines. There are none. “Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-eight, thank you very much. And you?”
I’ve never cared about my age, and unlike Hannah, I had no problem when I turned thirty, but I still play it coy. “Older than you.”
He smiles. “What about you? What do you do?”
“Oh. I’m between jobs.”
“In what industry?”
“Entertainment.”
“Are you an actress? You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you for the compliment. You’re pretty cute yourself.”
He smiles, looking flustered, both of us aware that he’s in over his head.
I cut to the chase and ask what he’s doing for the rest of the day.
“Not much,” he says.
“Do you want to hang?” I ask. “We could go to a dog park.”
He smiles. “I do have a life apart from dogs.”
“As in…a girlfriend?”
He shakes his head.
“No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”
“What can I say? I’m between them.” He smiles.
It’s his first real attempt at flirting, and although it’s a bit clumsy, he pulls it off. Or perhaps he pulls it off because it’s clumsy.
“Touché,” I say, putting my hand right on his knee.
—
By the time Tyson and Hannah find me in the bar, I’m on my third martini and getting very cozy with Gus.
“Oh, hey,” I say, giving them a nonchalant wave. Hannah is wearing a white eyelet cover-up and platform sandals. Tyson has on navy swim trunks and a gray T-shirt. They both look like they’d rather be anywhere but this bar.
“Hi,” Hannah says, glancing at Gus, then looking back at me.
“This is Gus. From Tulsa. He’s here for a dog trial.” I hiccup, then laugh. “He’s defending the dog.”
“The dog’s owner,” Gus clarifies.
“Cool,” Hannah says, nodding.
Tyson stands behind her, looking pissed.
“Ask him something about dogs,” I say to Hannah. “Anything.”
She thinks for a second, then says, “Is it true that a dog’s IQ is the same as a toddler’s?”
“It is! Dogs’ mental abilities are comparable to those of a two-and-a-half-year-old human child,” Gus says, nerding out. “Of course, the intelligence of individual dogs differs, just as it does with humans—”
“How many of those have you had?” Tyson cuts in, pointing to my martini glass.
“What are you, my father?” I ask in a snide voice. “Oh, shoot. No. He’s the one with triplet grandchildren, isn’t he?”
“No, Lainey. I’m not your father,” Tyson says. “I’m your friend. Who thinks you need to lay off the vodka.”
“Thanks for your advice, friend. But I’m good.”
