Frisky Business (Chick Flick Club Book 3) Read online

  I shake my head, smiling. “You think I haven’t heard that before? If you never meet somebody, you’re not meant to be together.” I shrug.

  “Oh, so it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he smiles. “If you’re with someone, you’re meant to be with them. And if it doesn’t work out, then you’re not. Nice cheat.”

  “It’s not a cheat!” I protest, defensive now. “It’s romantic.”

  “Ohhh . . .” He draws out the word. “You’re one of those.”

  Something about the way he says it makes me tense. “One of who?”

  “Those girls who have watched way too many cheesy movies,” Kyle says, rolling his eyes. “And think real life should come with a soundtrack and someone serenading them on a balcony.”

  “What’s wrong with romance?” I blurt, getting madder.

  “Where do you want me to start?” Kyle asks. “With the false expectations, or overblown gestures, or the idea that any characters in their twenties could live in massive apartments with bullshit fake jobs?

  “They’re not supposed to be real,” I protest. “It’s a fantasy.”

  “But here you are, spouting all this stuff about soulmates and ‘the one’ like it’s real life,” Kyle points out, smirking.

  Did I say I liked his smile? Now it’s just plain smug and infuriating.

  “But—”

  “Eve?”

  A voice comes from behind me. I turn. A guy is loitering, looking awkward.

  “I’m Kyle.”

  I blink. What?

  “Kyle, from the app?” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got a flat tire on my bike. I cycle everywhere,” he adds, “lowering my carbon footprint.”

  That’s all very environmental, but I’m still stuck on the first part of what he said.

  “You’re Kyle?! But . . .” I turn to the guy formerly known as Kyle, who’s sitting beside me, taking a casual drink of his beer. “Who the hell are you?!”

  “Noah.” He gives an amused smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Uh, hi.” Kyle is frowning, confused, and he’s not the only one.

  “You lied to me?” I scramble down from the barstool so fast, I nearly take a tumble.

  “Technically, no,” Not-Kyle replies. “You just assumed I was him, and I didn’t correct you.”

  “So, you just pretended to be somebody else?!” I can’t believe this guy. I’ve been sitting here trying to make an honest connection and all along, he’s been stringing me along in some kind of sick game?

  “You’re disgusting!” I tell him angrily.

  “Another thing my exes tell me,” he smiles, totally unruffled.

  “And I bet you don’t even like dogs!” I turn to Kyle and fix him with a smile. “Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” I say, shooting a last glare at Not-Kyle. “And you can tell me all about your bicycle.”

  “Umm, sure.” He spots a table in the corner and heads that way, but before I can follow, Not-Kyle gives me a wink.

  “Good luck with your soulmate. What do you think, is it meant to be?”

  Ugh!

  I turn on my heel and leave.

  I can’t believe I thought he was hot!

  2

  EVE

  “I’M SERIOUS, GEMS,” I say into my phone the next morning as I get ready for work. “He went on like a ten-minute rant while I just sat there. He would not give it up until he’d made the owner promise to change from plastic straws to paper. I mean, I’m all about the environment, but, please. Time and place.”

  “The nerve!” Gemma says, mock-incredulously. “Doesn’t he know paper versus plastic is a third-date thing, right up there with sex?”

  “Right?” I laugh. “Also, get this: he says having pets is cruel and unnatural.”

  “Whaaaat?” Gemma says. “That’s . . . fuck. Your date was cruel and unnatural.”

  “I know. Between that and the fake date guy at the beginning.” I sigh. “What a shitshow.”

  “The next one will be better,” Gemma promises.

  “I guess,” I say, and then I hear a voice outside my bedroom. A random male voice. “Or, you know, I could always go outside my bedroom and take my pick of one of the frat boys passed out in the living room.”

  Gemma tuts. “I can’t believe you’re actually living in a sorority house. How old are you?”

  “It’s not like I’m actually on campus. It’s not an official sorority house,” I huff, though it may as well be. “It’s cheap. I thought it would be a good way to make friends.”

  “Aaaaand?” Gemma laughs. “How’s that going?”

  “It’s great!” I say. “If you don’t mind friends who are slobs, leave all their dishes in the sink, steal all your food, and hog the bathroom.”

  Gemma giggles at my sarcasm.

  “And maybe the worst part?” I say, struggling to tug on my jeans one-handed. “Let’s just say, if there was ever a crime in here, they would have a lot of DNA to sort through. Everywhere. All types. If you know what I mean.” I shiver in disgust.

  “So gross,” Gemma says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “Anyway, it’s not going to be a long-term thing.” I desperately hope. Come on, lottery! “But until I can sort my bank account out, it works for now.” I glance at the time. “Oops! Gotta run, Gems. See you later.”

  I get off the phone and finish getting dressed before I raid my piggy bank for coffee money. It’s a luxury I can’t really afford, but it’s worth it to get out of here quickly without getting exposed to any wayward DNA.

  WHEN I GET to the shelter, I do the rounds: going from kennel to kennel to say hello to all the pups, checking in and getting a good dose of much-needed puppy therapy. I’ve been volunteering at the shelter for two years now, and I love every minute of it. Every dog deserves love, and I see it as my personal mission to match them all with the very best home—while smothering them with snuggles in the meantime.

  I go down the line, greeting all the new arrivals, before I get to the very last kennel. Fred is sleeping on his little faux sheepskin bed. He’s a medium-sized brown mutt of questionable heritage, and today he’s curled up and snoring adorably. I don’t want to disturb the old guy, but like he senses me there, he glances up and turns his one good chocolatey brown eye on me.

  “Hey there, Fred, my good, good boy,” I coo.

  It’s enough to make him heave his old bones off his bed and come over to me, tail wagging so fiercely, it’s like the tail is wagging him. I laugh, my heart full because he’s such a sweet boy—definitely my favorite. It breaks my heart that nobody’s fallen in love with him just yet, but placing older dogs is always the hardest. Puppies are easy and cute, but not many people are willing to take on an older animal who might have health problems or not live so long.

  I squat down and pet the nose that’s pushing through the kennel bars.

  “I see no one discovered your charms since I was here,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “But that’s OK. More time for us to hang out.” Of course, I would love to find a family that will love him as much as I do. But until that happens, I can pretend he’s all mine.

  “He can be all yours, you know,” Diane, the shelter’s director—and my boss—says from beside me just then, proving she can read my mind. Or that I wear my heart on my sleeve. “Fred would love to go home with you!”

  “Hey, Diane.” I smile over at her. “You know I’d be all over it if I could. Actually, I’d take them all!” I laugh.

  “I know you would.” She looks down the row of occupied kennels. We’re kindred spirits in that we are both so committed to the dogs and finding them the best homes. “I’ve been so busy on the admin side, we haven’t had a chance to brainstorm any new ideas to get people through the door. Maybe we can host another adoptathon? Except, the last one didn’t really bring in too many people . . .”

  “I’m sure we can think of something,” I reassure her, following her back out to the main lobby, where another woman
has just walked in.

  “Diane!” the newcomer exclaims, rushing up to give Diane a brief hug and air kisses on each cheek. She’s in her fifties, fit, and looks like money in her designer yoga outfit and sparkly flip-flops that probably cost more than my rent.

  Not like that’s hard.

  “Viv,” Diane greets her, smiling. “I thought you and Colin were leaving for Europe today?”

  “We are!” Viv’s eyes go wide. “We’re set to fly out tonight, but our dog-sitter just fell through. Please tell me you know someone who can step up!”

  I sidle closer. I volunteer here at the shelter, but dog-walking and sitting is what I count on to pay the bills. I usually have at least six different clients in rotation, but thanks to the school break, vacations, and one of them disappearing to Canada to escape a divorce ruling (don’t ask), my schedule is looking painfully sparse.

  Diane is looking thoughtful. “Let me see . . . You know I would do it if I didn’t have a full house already.” She waves vaguely behind her toward the kennels. “Occupational hazard and all.”

  “I know.” Viv sighs. “Although, we are looking for someone to live in for the month that we’ll be away. We don’t want to leave the house empty for so long, plus the rascals get stressed being away from home for so long.”

  Live in? I blink. For a month? In a house?

  “Plus, we can pay, of course, for the inconvenience,” Viv continues. “Do you think a hundred dollars a day would be OK?”

  “YES!” I blurt, unable to contain myself. The women turn. “I mean, hi! Did I hear you say you’re looking for a pet-sitter?”

  I put on my best “responsible adult” face and beam, because seriously? The thought of escaping the frat house hell AND being paid for the privilege is like a gift from the gods right now.

  “This is Eve, one of my volunteers.” Diane introduces me, and Viv brightens.

  “Would you be interested?”

  Before I can yell out, “HELLS YES I AM INTERESTED!” Diane speaks up. “Eve is very experienced and loves dogs. I can vouch for her.”

  “And I have references!” I add eagerly. “Lots of them!”

  “Perfect,” Viv says. “We’re leaving today, but obviously, we need to do a quick background check, since you’ll be staying at our home to look after our two beloved pugs.”

  “Of course,” I agree, even more excited because: pugs!

  She looks at me sideways. “You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?” she asks with a wry grin.

  “Not that you’ll find on a background check,” I say, deadpan.

  She laughs. After she takes my information, she says she’ll be in touch within the hour. “I have a guy on standby,” she adds mysteriously, and then she’s gone.

  I turn to Diane. “What’s her deal?” I ask, seriously curious about the woman who has a guy for background checks at the drop of a hat.

  “Viv McKenney,” Diane says. “An old friend of mine. She and her husband are in tech. Something to do with security, though I’m not exactly sure. You’ll like her place,” she adds.

  “I’m sure I will,” I say. Mostly because I’m betting on it not being anything like the Palace du Bodily Fluids I live in now. Hell, I’d take a shack in the woods over another night in frat central, but I’m guessing from Viv’s designer bag that I’ll be looking at a luxury glamping tent, at the very least.

  As long as there’s running water and a cute pooch to pet, I’m good!

  SURE ENOUGH, Viv’s connections pay off, because thirty minutes later, I get the email confirming that no dead bodies have been found: I’m officially hired! They’re flight is leaving in an hour, but she sends the address and security code, and tells me there will be a list of instructions on the kitchen island waiting for me. I should make myself at home for the next month.

  I can’t believe my luck. Make myself at home. In a real home. Where I don’t have to hoard my good toilet roll in a locked closet to stop the unwashed masses using it all.

  Heaven!

  I finish up at the shelter and hurry home to shove as much stuff as I can into my bags, then catch a bus to take me over to my new home. Well, as far as the bus will take me. Viv’s neighborhood is so posh, the bus line doesn’t venture in; I have to get off at the last stop and trudge up a giant hill, struggling with my bags like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday. Except for the snow, of course. But if Jude Law is living right next door, I have to say, I’d be A-OK with that.

  As I trudge, I can’t help noticing I’ve arrived in a parallel universe. A world where the streets are sparkling clean, filled with massive, gorgeous mansions hidden behind privacy gates. Where shady trees line the sidewalks, and there’s a stunning view of the whole San Francisco bay. I don’t want to even imagine what living in a place like this costs, but I’m guessing you had to get in on the ground floor at Google to afford it.

  Or strike it very lucky with a pooch-loving pug mama.

  When I finally arrive at the top of the hill, I have to double-check the address, because seriously? I didn’t think places like this existed in the city. Think modern architecture, all glass and wood, set back behind giant modern iron gates. I punch the code in the little keypad on the concrete wall and with a soft, well-oiled ker-chuck, the left gate opens.

  Taking a breath, I drag my big suitcase up the driveway. “So, this is going to be fun,” I tell myself, my heart racing in excitement. I watch Million Dollar Listing for the fun of it, but I never thought I’d get to live like this. Not without a handy Powerball win, at least. But it turns out, all I needed was to be in the right place at the right time, without any felonies on my record.

  Score one for responsible living!

  I punch another code and let myself inside the huge front door, and I’m immediately greeted by two fat, snorty, adorable pugs. Each has their name embroidered on their blinged-up collars: Leia and Hans.

  “Are you just the cutest little resistance fighters ever?” I coo, getting down on the floor to greet them properly. I’m instantly rewarded with an avalanche of eager puppy love: licks, snuffles, and snorts.

  Oh yeah, this is definitely going to be a good month.

  Once introductions are out of the way, I get on with the real business of drooling over this amazing house. The foyer alone is about the size of most city apartments, with triple-height ceilings and a massive glass window that must be a bitch to clean. The whole house is full of light and minimal furniture, kind of a rustic-meets-billionaire vibe that makes me feel like I’m walking through a fancy modern hotel. I make my way through an incredible living room—clocking the massive sectional couch and fireplace—and into the giant chef’s kitchen, complete with six-burner stove, double ovens, Sub-Zero fridge, and everything any chef would drool over.

  I take a panorama shot of the kitchen to show Zoey later. She’s going to lose her mind. I’ll have her begging me to let her cook here.

  I find Viv’s note and scan the hand-written instructions. I’m relieved they’ve covered all the basics: emergency numbers, feeding directions, which room I’m to make mine, and the most important information: the fridges, both food and wine, are fully stocked for my use.

  When I take a peek, I find them full of fancy bubbly water, gourmet cheeses, and produce that looks fresh from the farmers market. And is that a cheesecake from Zanze’s I spy?

  Be still my hungry heart.

  “All right then,” I tell the pugs, beaming. “Time to make myself at home.”

  I take my time exploring the rest of the house—no, not house, mansion—and go room to room, the two little snorty escorts close on my heels. It takes a while, because sure, who doesn’t need a personal gym in the basement and a dedicated zen yoga room? Finally, I head upstairs to find “my” room for the month.

  I stop in the doorway and drop my bag. “Are you kidding me?”

  The giant guest room is glorious, complete with a king-sized bed, cozy chaise for reading, and an en-suite bathroom with a jetted tub bigger than my entir
e room at frat central.

  I go to the French doors that lead out onto my balcony and step outside, savoring the view. There’s a backyard oasis which includes a chic lap pool and sun loungers, as well as a lawn of dog-friendly grass. There’s even a pool house beyond, with curtains and gingerbread trim that I assume has been turned into a she-shed for Viv. Intended for serious downward dog, but likely used for even more serious downing wine.

  I can’t believe this place—or how lucky I am. “You get to enjoy this every day,” I say to the pugs as I throw myself onto the bed and roll happily in the pillowy clouds. It’s divine. And I reluctantly drag myself back onto my feet again. Snuggling can wait, I have more exploring to do.

  First, though, time to get really comfortable.

  I open up my bags and dump everything on the bed, digging through to find my favorite PJs. They’re wrinkled, but who cares? Not the dogs, surely. Later I’ll use the washer—for free. Oh Lord: free laundry! I am so loving my life right now.

  I strip down and tug on the 101 Dalmatians fleece pants and matching tank, then lead the dogs down the hall, peeking into other bedrooms that are as amazing as mine. The master looks like something out of Architectural Digest—floor-to-ceiling windows, lush, snow-white (white!) carpet, walk-in closet that Gemma would drool over, and a four-poster bed that looks like it was carved by masters.

  “This place,” I exclaim to the dogs. I know I should have opinions about the crazy wealth inequality in this city, but what do I know? Maybe Viv and her husband toiled long and hard to make this kind of money. She’s got great taste, that’s for sure.

  I go back downstairs and open another door to find it’s a home theater with a giant TV on the wall and two rows of leather recliners. There’s even a popcorn machine—not like a tabletop thing you get from Walmart, but a legit, freestanding, old-timey popcorn machine. This is in addition to the giant TV above the big fireplace in the living room. I guess when you’re loaded, you have different TVs for different occasions.