The trash.
Jimmy might be searching for a job, cleaning the house, and saving me ice cream, but he’s also still digging through my bathroom trash for tampons, and that is the neon light that blinks the brightest.
Jimmy is not the one.
But … he’s here until I can get him legally removed from the premises, so he might as well make himself useful.
“Sure,” I say. “Take her for a walk. Thanks.” I opt for a long bath and inappropriate thoughts of my new friend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For the next few days, Jimmy attempts to earn his keep: he feeds Cersei, takes her for walks, cooks, cleans, and even vacs out my car. It’s more than I expected when he moved in with me. That should count for something, but it doesn’t. I can’t be with Jimmy when I know there’s a Shep in my world. And I can’t be with Shep while my sister’s baby is in my uterus.
And even if I weren’t with child, Shep could be a Jimmy, like Jimmy is a Tanner (the car and purse thief) and Tanner was a Benjamin (who slept on my sofa for a month with a fake cast while he dodged the police). These are my freeloaders—men who swept me off my feet before stealing my wallet, my time, my sofa, or my goodwill. Mostly, they stole my innocence in a non-virginal way.
And now, I’m susceptible to baby brain. Even more reason not to put myself in vulnerable situations such as a new relationship. Yet, here I am … proverbially telling Shep, “Okay, but just the tip.”
One day at a time. Shep is my friend. Period. If Shep World ends tomorrow, so be it.
Then why am I so excited about meeting him at the store to wash Cersei? Oh … that’s right. I’m going to get wet.
“Good afternoon. If you need help with anything, just let me know.” The salt-and-pepper-haired woman behind the register smiles at me as she refills a countertop display with biscuits.
“Is Shep around?”
“He’s in the back unloading a shipment. Do you want me to get him?”
“Can you tell him Sophie’s here?”
“You bet.” She pushes open the door to the back of the store. “Shep? There’s a Sophie here to see you.”
“Thanks, Boss.” His voice echoes.
“Listen, if he needs to finish what he’s doing, don’t let me stop him.” The last thing I need is Shep getting fired like Jimmy because he’s catering to my dog’s needs while on the clock. It’s a self-serve wash.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll finish later. And if he doesn’t, I’ll have to do it. He’s always slacking.”
I cringe. “You know … tell him I had something come up. I’ll be back another day.”
“What’s come up?” Shep asks as he pushes through the backroom door, untying his apron and slipping it over his head.
Taking a second or ten to admire his fitted tee and toned arms, I clear my throat. “Finish what you’re doing. I don’t want you to get fired because of me.” I shoot his boss a nervous smile.
She laughs. “Finally! Someone who knows who’s boss.”
He wads up his apron and throws it at her, hitting the side of her head. Oh my god! I can’t believe he did that.
“I know you’re the boss, Marta, but you don’t actually have to be so bossy.”
My eyes widen. I can’t read her. Does she find him funny? God, I hope so.
“Come on, dirty bitch … let’s get you wet,” he says.
Kill me now.
“Watch your mouth, young man. Or I’ll wash it out with soap like my grandma used to do to me.” Marta gives Shep the hairy eyeball.
“I was talking to Cersei, who is a bitch and she’s dirty. I wasn’t talking to Sophie.” Shep nods toward the basin. “I would never call you a dirty bitch.”
Without blinking, my gaze ping-pongs between Shep and Marta as I inch my way toward him.
“Nice glasses.” He eyes my leopard print frames.
“Thanks.” I try to smile despite the tension I feel between them.
“That shirt is nice too … and an interesting choice.”
I glance down at my white tank top and short denim shorts with a frayed hem.
“Hope my friend is wearing a thick padded bra,” he says so only I can hear him.
Shit …
“Or maybe I don’t.” Shep smirks while putting Cersei in the basin.
“I’ll wash her.” I reach for the hose in his hand.
“No. I’ve got it.” He pulls just out of my reach.
I don’t trust the look on his face. As he washes her, I maintain a good three feet from the basin, and he glances up occasionally and gives me a look. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying my discomfort, my distrust.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like that girl from High School Musical? My granddaughter loves that series.”
I turn toward Marta as she says that. “Vanessa Hudgens?” I chuckle. “Thanks. That’s quite the compliment.”