Chapter 4

Landon

Wednesday morning rolls around just like any other hump day. As I do my morning exercises, my heart thumps against my rib cage, announcing that today is different in the most exciting way. Truthfully, I have no business saying “hump day” at all. First of all, the cliché annoys me. I can’t stand that stupid commercial with the talking camel mumbling the phrase repeatedly. I also don’t have to punch a clock five days a week. I feel sorry for people who have to drag themselves to work doing jobs they detest.

As an author, I set my own hours. Sometimes, I might just spend a lazy Friday around the house in my pajamas. And then when Saturday comes, I may work for fifteen hours straight until my neck spasms in protest to my abuse. It all depends on my creative flow.

Whenever someone used to ask about my greatest inspiration, the answer was easy, and it didn’t take a second thought. Carla, my own personal muse. Now that she’s gone, it’s different. I find myself needing more time to get my head into a creative space.

When we used to visit Grandma Nancy, my favorite place to write was by the big picture window in the breakfast nook while she puttered around the basement organizing her antique doll collection, listening to Barbara Streisand on her iPod stereo. Back then, I cringed at the melody of “The Way We Were.” But what I wouldn’t give to hear that now with Carla’s melodic soprano singing along with the diva.

Now, I do a hundred pushups, trying to shake off my regrets. If I allow it, today can represent a brand-new start for me and the little terrors. After I’m finished, I take a quick shower to rinse off the sweat and slip on my mustache pants. The moment I open the door, Taco, Burrito, and Chili burst into the room. I need the pants because any little extra bit of support is welcome. Their loud barking triggers a slight headache.

“Quiet! Quiet!” I put my finger to my lips, hoping to mime them into submission since my words don’t do the trick.

They bark even louder and throw spinning like whirling furry cyclones into the mix. They could be on America’s Got Talent as an animal act. Except for one thing, there’s no rhyme or reason to their performance.

“Listen here, you little mutts, a nice lady named Brooke is coming today to whip you into shape. No more non-stop barking! Be pleasant. Be cordial. If you scare her away, you’ll regret it. No more jumping all over the furniture.” I point to Taco. “And you, buddy! No more licking my hair! Kapeesh?” I clap my hands and whistle. “Now move it!”

It takes a minute, but I finally herd them out of the bedroom. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. In a few hours, Brooke will be here to make all my frustration go away. Hooking leashes to the little beasts, I take them outside to relieve themselves. If I decide to live here long term, I need to build a fence to contain the furry mob.

I’m filled with anticipation each time I think of the dark-haired beauty, but only because she’s the person who can help me. I haven’t been alone with a woman since Carla passed, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s almost as if I’m betraying her memory by hiring a dog trainer. Women steer clear of me most of the time.

There was a romance novelist I met at a writing conference in Chicago last year. Colleen something or other. Pretty enough, with really thick, long blonde hair and green eyes. But I have to admit, she did know how to carry on an interesting conversation. There were absolutely no sparks, at least not on my end. I’m more a brunette man. When she asked to exchange contact info, I declined. I told her it was too soon for me to start dating again. She nodded and said, “I totally get it.”

I lied.

It’s been close to three freaking years, and I think anyone would agree that it wouldn’t cause people to spit at me in the street if I went out on a date, even just for companionship. And I want to. I want to find a woman who gets me the way Carla did. But I don’t think I’ll ever find someone like her.

And yes, maybe I’m a little afraid to try. After all, I only know how to touch one woman. How to kiss one woman. Since that woman was taken, no one else has inspired me to want to.

By the time I met Carla, I had just about given up on love at the ripe age of twenty-seven. But she made me believe all over again. One look into her blue eyes and my insides turned to mush. Her exterior was beautiful, like a Renaissance painting.

But her inside…took my very breath away.

When I first laid eyes on Carla at the local laundromat, I felt like a wrecking ball had struck the center of my chest. My hands shook, and I accidentally poured bleach all over my lucky black jeans. She laughed that infectious laugh of hers and we struck up a conversation instantly. Even though my lucky jeans were ruined, I knew it was the luckiest day of my life.

Carla and I were inseparable from that day on. It was so easy to be around her. For the first time in my life, I could actually be myself. She supported my dream to be a novelist, even though the prospect of being traditionally published was slim to none. With Carla as the wind beneath my wings, I got a contract after only five query letters. That day, we’d eaten tapas at a local bistro, danced in the rain until we were soaked through, and made love in the shower to warm up.

I had no idea that my beautiful angel was only meant to be in my life for a season. If only I’d known our marriage would last a mere five years, I would have spent every second worshipping her, and not one second arguing or sulking.

I still think about Carla, but for the first time since the tragedy, another woman has entered my thoughts.

I know nothing about her at all except the fact that she owns a dog training facility. She must be pretty good at it because she taught Merle how to snowboard and a bulldog snowboarding is a treat…even for a guy like me who’d rather have a cat.

I guess I do know something else about Brooke. She’s pretty with eyes that can’t decide if they’re blue or green. A woman’s eyes are the most sensual part of her. They can flash with anger, passion, sadness, joy. Whoever said they are the windows to the soul was definitely onto something.

***

I stand in front of the bedroom closet, trying to decide what to wear like some giddy high schooler. My weight keeps shifting from one foot to the other, and I feel kinda silly. Even though my body’s starting to thaw, I have no way of knowing if she’ll warm up to me or my little hellions. I’m not a bad looking guy for thirty-seven, but I learned long ago about the dangers of being overly confident when it comes to the opposite sex. Most women hate my guts.

Brooke seemed really nice on TV, but what if she’s nothing like that in person? What if it was all an act to drum up business? What if she’s an arrogant wench? My mind races with a million thoughts, none of them positive. As a writer, my characters rarely turn out the way I want them to. Life imitates art.

And I used my pen name when I emailed her like a scared hermit. Brooke thinks she’s meeting with W. Ellis Cole at two o’clock. I guess she is meeting with him, in a way. Cole isn’t a complete fabrication. He has a Facebook page and a Twitter handle. He even posts to Instagram via his publicist. He’s real enough, right?

Wrong.

Regret niggles at every recess of my body and I feel like I might throw up. I reach for a sweater and a pair of khakis. Fight back the urge to dress like your father. I have an immediate change of heart and go for a button-down green shirt and a pair of dark denim True Religion jeans.

I hold the outfit up to my chest and study my reflection. This looks youthful. Scratch that. Youthful doesn’t sound young at all. It sounds like I’m trying too fucking hard. Millennials don’t walk around saying “youthful,” but I’m sure that it’s a popular word in retirement communities.

I wonder about Brooke’s age. On TV, it looked as if she’d barely graduated college. With that killer body and those piercing eyes, she radiates vitality. It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, but she looks, dare I say…youthful. She’s probably quite a few years younger than me. She’s way too young for you, dipshit. Not that it’s any of my business. Good thing you don’t want to date her.

The argument with myself wages on.

I toss the clothes on the bed and head to the bathroom. Taking a long, steamy shower, I let the hot water cleanse my skin and refresh my mind. This is the most relaxing part of my day.

When I get out, I towel off and open the medicine cabinet. I stare at my cologne selection and discover it’s like a geriatric version of Ralph Lauren. I debate if I should spray some on or skip it altogether. I’ve heard many women say that they love a man who smells great. Obviously, that’s worlds better than the alternative. I rifle through the bottles until my hands clench the Gucci brand. No. Carla loved that one on me. It would be wrong to use it again for some other woman, and I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard. I’m desperate not to come across as desperate.

I’m so fucking desperate.

I split the baby, grab some Eternity and spray on just a little bit. I take a deep breath. Soon, I will be face-to-face with the first woman I’ve been attracted to since my wife passed away. More than that epic realization, I really hope she can help me with the dogs. I am desperate for these Chihuahuas to start behaving.

I think about Brooke’s infectious smile and her gorgeous azure eyes. I think about the warm, comforting tone of her voice. I think about how amazing she is at what she does. My heart starts galloping until I feel overwhelmed. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything.