“Nugget, come.”
He runs in theoppositedirection, yellow tennis ball stuffed into his mouth, ears flopping like a cartoon character. Drool slings out the side of his jowls in a majestic arc as he barrels toward the back fence like he’s been possessed by a demon.
“God dammit, would you listen for once?”
He has the worst manners.
Cash’s dog. My problem anytime he’s in town.
The dog has more frequent flier miles than I do. Seriously. Nugget’s been to Aspen, Vancouver, Salt Lake City, and three different states in the Midwest—all because Cash thinks it’s rad to film social media content snowboarding with his dog.
I bend to grab the ball again and give it a toss toward the fence.
Nugget launches after it, back legs kicking up a spray of dirt.
“Go fetch it, you little maniac,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my shorts, watching as he gets the zoomies and tears in circles all over the yard, eyes bugging out wildly.
Awesome.
Get good and tired.
Behind me the patio door slides open.
Bare feet shuffle across the concrete, Cash drops into a deck chair nearby and I can hear his groan, stretching out like an old man with broken bones.
Tank top. Hair in a headband.
A smug expression that says he's been waiting for this conversation…
He squints out toward Nugget. “That dog is cracked out.”
“He’s just excited to be home,” I mutter, still watching the dog manically spiral through the lawn. “How was your trip?”
Cash scratches at his elbow several seconds before responding. “Awesome. Got laid twice on Saturday by two different chicks.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
Cash snickers, totally unfazed by the sarcasm. “Hey, I’m just saying—it was aproductiveweekend.”
I don’t respond.
Mostly because I’ve already burned through my tolerance for his bragging and it’s not even ten a.m.
He stretches, barefoot on the patio, tank top riding up just enough to flash the obnoxious tattoo he got last year in Vegas. The one that saysSEND NÜDZin gothic font, on top of a steaming bowl of Ramen noodles.
Real classy stuff. Poppy will die when she sees it.
“Place had a hot tub though.” My roommate pauses. “Which brings me to my next point—what’s the deal with Miss Buzzkill in there?”
“Poppy?”
He jerks his chin toward the house. “Yes, Poppy. Little Miss, ‘I’ll pass on the bar invite, thanks, I have to build my home office.’” Cash snorts. “Has she been that uptight all fucking week?”
No.
No, she hasn’t been.
But I don’t say that.
