Chapter Ten
Becky stood on the porch of Dakota’s duplex, hoping the box of bakery goods would make up for the fact that she’d shown up uninvited. But she needed her best friend. It was as close to a drama emergency as Becky was ever going to get in a life she had worked hard to keep normal and drama-free.
Besides, she and Dakota had known each other forever. Dakota knew Becky needed to be scraped off the ground whenever her family was involved.
She decided she wasn’t going to mention Foster’s involvement. Dakota would accuse her of falling in love—which she wasn’t; that was ridiculous—but then Dakota would accuse her of protesting too much, and Becky just couldn’t deal with that kind of mental exercise right now. She just needed a friend.
And some carbs.
She juggled her shopping bag—because if baked goods didn’t earn her friend’s forgiveness, she knew mimosas would—and rang the doorbell again.
She heard footsteps and figured she must have woken Dakota up because she didn’t usually sound like a herd of cattle clomping down the stairs. But the door didn’t open.
Becky was about to ring again—what was going on in there?—when the door opened. And there was Dakota, one hand on the door.
She didn’t see Becky, but how could she? She had her tongue down Bullhorn’s throat.
“Oh!” Becky dropped the baked goods.
Dakota whipped around.
And slammed the door in her face.
A second later, the door opened again and Dakota was there with an apologetic smile.
“I don’t suppose you didn’t see that?” she asked.
“See what?” Becky answered, because she was a good friend.
Dakota sighed. “Never mind. Come in.”
Dakota reached for the shopping bag and Becky leaned down to pick up the bakery box, which thankfully had survived the fall unopened. A little dented, but mostly unharmed.
Sort of like Becky.
“Here, let me get that.” And then Bullhorn was down on her level, taking the box from her hand and holding the door open for her.
She followed him inside and up the stairs to Dakota’s apartment. Dakota was already in the kitchen, unpacking the OJ and reaching for her vintage champagne glasses.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Becky said, and she couldn’t help but smile as Bullhorn kicked at the carpet like a kid about to receive a punishment.
“Nice to see you again, Bullhorn.”
“Hi, Becky.”
“Sorry I missed you yesterday at the shelter.”
“Yup.”
“So,” Dakota said, clapping her hands together. “Who wants a drink?”
* * *
A mimosa and a half later, Becky finally got the truth out of Dakota.
“Fine, yes, we’ve been seeing each other.”
“How many times?”
Dakota started counting softly under her breath. She looked up at the ceiling as if the answer to how many times she’d gone out with a guy named Bullhorn was written in the stucco.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe twenty?”
“Twenty? It’s only been a week! What’d you do, go on three dates in one day?”
“Oh! You’re talking about dates! Yeah, we haven’t really been on any dates.”
“Then what are you talking about? Twenty what? Oh.” The mimosas were making her slow. Plus, she was having a hard time picturing Bullhorn in any kind of sexual situation. Fortunately, he had left just as soon as Becky got there.
“Don’t let that frat-boy exterior fool you. Bullhorn has hidden depths.”
“And yet he still goes by the name Bullhorn.”
“He was a cheerleader in college.”
“Wow. I never thought you’d go for a cheerleader.”
“Hey, he’s pretty limber. And he owns a brewery.”
“A cheerleading brewery?”
“No. Ha ha. It’s the one on South Broadway, the one that’s always on the Westword Best of Denver list.”
“He owns that brewery? But that place is, like, cool.”
“Yeah.”
“And breweries are a lot of work.”
“I know. And here’s something else: he reads.”
“Books?”
Dakota nodded. “For fun.”
“Wow.”
“I told you. Hidden depths.”
“So . . . are you getting serious?”
“Serious? Beck, it’s only been a week. People don’t just, like, shack up permanently in a week.”
“I know.”
“Do you? I seem to recall you picking out china patterns before you even sleep with a guy.”
“I do not pick out china patterns.” She was much more interested in casual dinnerware. “Anyway, I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Really? So if a guy in a bad suit walked through this door, you wouldn’t jump all over him?”
“No.”
“Not even if he wanted to give you a tour of his house with the white picket fence?”
“The white picket fence is just a metaphor. But I told you, I’m done. Reset.”
“But that was back when he was just an anonymous lumberjack. Now he’s Foster.”
“Yeah, Foster who’s an attorney, and I’m done with lawyers.”
“Foster who adopted a sad old dog.”
“He’s just fostering her. I would have done it if I could’ve gotten out of that part of my lease.”
“Hmm. If only you knew some lawyer who could help you with that.”
“Besides, Foster is a genius, so even if I hadn’t sworn off lawyers—which I have—I will never swear on geniuses.”
“Swear on?”
“That’s the opposite of swear off, right?”
“Not sure about that. Maybe we should ask a genius.”
“He’s not that kind of genius. He’s a legal genius. One of the greatest legal minds of our generation.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, AALL did.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“The American Association of Law Libraries. And the American Bar Association and the Columbia Law Review and just about every publication that writes anything about intellectual property.”
“So, things normal people don’t care about.”
“I care and I’m normal.”
“You sure about that?”
“Trust me.”
“I’m just saying, it might be okay to bend your no-lawyers rule.”
“Bend it? I just started following it! Because you told me to!”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“No. You’re never wrong.”
“Say that one more time, for posterity.”
“About love, at least.”
“I am apparently dating a guy named Bullhorn.”
“Besides, Foster is a jerk.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Fine. But he’s condescending at work.”
“So don’t date him at work.”
“This is so unfair. You told me no feelings, so I did it. No feelings! And so even though he’s really great and it was the best sex of my life, I’m not having feelings for him, okay? I’m not.”
“OK, OK.” Dakota got up to refill their drinks. Because Becky definitely needed more alcohol.
“So . . . how was dinner last night?”
She took the bottle of champagne from Dakota. If she was going to get into this, she definitely needed more alcohol.
“That good, huh?”
Becky shrugged. “It was fine. It was the longest we’ve sat together at a table in . . . I think my entire life.”
“Your family. I don’t know how you came from them.”
“Neither do they.”
“Not all geniuses are like your parents, you know.”
She’d known Dakota since middle school, when she was the weird new kid who talked funny. Becky felt bad for her—and was sort of fascinated by her Southern accent—and her pity turned into an unbreakable friendship. Which meant they knew everything about each other. Which meant Dakota had been to her parents’ house and seen the complete lack of comfortable social furniture and the absence of any of that trivial conversation that makes a family feel connected. She’d heard her parents tease her about her C report card and her choice to go to a state school and how library science wasn’t a real science. Dakota didn’t live with it, but she’d seen a little of what it was like to grow up around geniuses.
So despite all the evidence that Foster was a normal, nice guy, she had to be on guard. She wasn’t going to throw her heart out to another genius and have it thrown back in her face because it wasn’t good enough.
* * *
Foster stared at the corner of the couch where a naked mole-rat sat staring back at him.
That wasn’t nice. So Starr wasn’t the fluffball he’d expected when he’d picked her up from a six-hour appointment at the groomer. She did look better without all those painful-looking mats covering her. And once they got back home, her shell-shocked look subsided and she seemed a lot happier. Apparently, she didn’t have a wonky ear; it just needed to be freed from the mess of hair.
Poor girl, he thought as he reached out to scratch her naked little back. She was going to be cold. Good thing he’d bought her a sweater when he went to the pet store to get more food.
A sweater, a puffy vest, a fleece, a dog bed, and a whole bag of toys that turned out to be too big for her. But they were fluffy and she liked to cuddle with them.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked her now. “I used to be a man with dignity.” Now he had a chupacabra who cuddled.
A chupacabra with a wardrobe.
Starr still couldn’t be convinced to put on any of the sweaters, and Foster decided she’d had such a traumatic day that he wouldn’t force her. She’d be cold when they went outside for a walk, but that wouldn’t be for a while. Instead, he just turned up the heat and took off his sweater.
They’d just chill out together, get to know each other a little better.
For Starr, this meant staring at him from the other end of the couch.
“I’m a genius, you know.”
Starr just looked back at him.
Foster sighed. What was he supposed to do with a dog?
“Do you want to play fetch or something?” When she didn’t respond, he picked up one of the squeaky toys he’d bought. This one was in the shape of a football. He squeezed it, then let it sail down the corridor.
Starr perked up enough to watch it go, then turned her attention back to Foster.
“Fetch,” he said hopefully. “I don’t suppose you’ll be one of those dogs I can train to bring me a beer, are you?”
Starr rested her head on her legs, but didn’t take her eyes off Foster.
Poor pathetic little beast, he thought. He wanted to scoop her up and squeeze her and scratch behind her ears. But he’d already tried that and all he’d gotten was a retreat to the other end of the couch and this stare down.
“Do you want to watch TV?” he asked. “Why am I even asking you? I’m the alpha dog here. We’re just going to do what I want to do. Which, fortunately, is not playing fetch. That was just a test.”
He picked up the remote and flicked on the television. Starr didn’t move, but she didn’t seem upset by the noise either.
“TV it is,” he said with finality, because he was the alpha of the house. He put his feet up on the coffee table and flipped through the channels until he found a movie with lots of explosions.
Every so often he’d sneak a look over at Starr, just to make sure she was still there. She was, and she eventually closed her eyes and started snoring.
God, even her snore was cute.
This was all Becky’s fault. She was the one who’d convinced him to adopt Starr. Foster her. Whatever. If Becky hadn’t been giving him that look of adoration, he never would have been coerced.
That wasn’t fair. Becky was more . . . coercion adjacent. Madison was the one who’d really done him in. And now where was she? She’d turned on the waterworks, sent him home with a mop dog, then had the nerve to have an appointment with her math tutor.
Maybe he could call Becky. Maybe he could convince her Starr was her fault, and then she’d come over and they could stare at her cute little hairless face together.
No. That was ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t going to do that. He was just going to sit at home and watch this explosion-heavy movie and let his temporary dog get acclimated to his sublet apartment.
Foster put his feet up on the couch and stretched out. Starr immediately moved from her perch on the pillow and climbed across his body.
“I thought you were asleep,” he accused her, but she just stared back at him like he was missing the most obvious point in the world. Then she squished herself between his body and the couch and rested her head on his ribs. She closed her eyes. So did Foster. And in a minute, they were both snoring.