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Double Dog Dare
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: The doorbell rang. “Oh no,” Lizzie cried. “I’m not ready yet.” She snatched the earrings from Summer’s hand. “You have to stall him. I still need to finish my hair.” Summer looked down at the baggy flannel boxers she’d pulled on earlier when she got home from making the final preparations in her classroom. Had she even remembered to shave her legs today? Yesterday? The T-shirt she wore was tied in a knot at her waist, revealing the Ben and Jerry’s induced swell of her belly. No way was she dressed to greet anyone, much less a hot jock. “Oh no,” she said. “I’m locking myself in my bedroom until you leave.” “I just agreed to your big ask,” Lizzie hissed. “This is mine in return.” She slammed the bathroom door in Summer’s face and locked it. Milli was barking like a fiend in the living room when the doorbell rang again. Crap. There was no time to wrap herself in a Snuggie. Or refill her wine glass with liquid courage. With a resigned sigh, Summer made her way to the front door. Milli’s toenails were tapdancing on the oak floors as the dog prepared to launch herself at whoever was on the front porch. Summer positioned her leg awkwardly to prevent Milli from escaping and opened the door, revealing an unexpected familiar sight—none other than Monty’s owner. She bit back a groan at the sight of the mouth she’d been having some serious dreams about last night. The eyes she’d been wondering about yesterday were hazel. And currently very bemused. “You,” she said, sounding just as priggish as she had the day before. Monty’s owner shoved his hands into the pockets of his sharply pressed khakis. “Uh, I hope I’ve got the right address. I’m looking for Elizabeth Pearson.” Of course, he was. Summer was suddenly appalled she’d been fantasizing about her cousin’s date. “She’s expecting a football player.” In for a priggish penny, in for a priggish pound. He rocked back on his heels. “Number eighty-one in your Growler’s program and number one in fans’ hearts. And the league’s leading receiver, two seasons in a row.” “Wow.” That explained Papa Harry’s “big fan” comment from yesterday. Milli whimpered as she clawed at Summer’s leg to escape. No doubt the silly dog wanted to roll over and expose her lady parts to her lover’s owner. “Asseyez-vous et comportez-vous, Milli,” Summer commanded. The dog neither sat nor behaved. Instead, the wee beast continued to struggle to get free. Number Eighty-One chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the only French that dog understands is French fry.” Summer bristled with indignation. How dare he fat-shame her grandmother’s adorably pudgy dog. “I’ll have you know that Milli Chanel understands French perfectly. She’s brilliant.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t say.” Crouching down on his haunches, he stared into Milli’s eyes. Summer swore the dog sighed. “Voulez-vous manger vieilles chaussures, Milli?” Mother of God. The man was fluent in the language of love, not to mention bread and chocolate. Summer was shocked her panties hadn’t spontaneously combusted as the perfectly accented words sensuously rolled off his tongue. Milli seemed to be having the same reaction. The dog’s eyes practically rolled back in her head as though he’d asked if she wanted cheese on her burger rather than if she wanted to eat old shoes. Satisfied he had proved his point, he stood up with the lithe grace of a natural athlete and smirked at her. “I rest my case.” Milli whimpered at the loss of Monty’s owner’s undivided attention. “Oww!” Summer yelped when the dog’s claws broke the skin on her leg. She hopped on one foot to the kitchen, leaving the guy to fend for himself with the little hussy that was her grandmother’s dog. She snagged a paper towel and held it to her shin while pouring herself another glass of wine with her other hand. Who said she wasn’t talented?
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