Page 104 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Wow indeed. You could cut this sexual tension with... a really dull butter knife.

Oh well, now or never.

I step closer, slide my hand around the back of his neck, and lean in, lips first.

“Hang on, whoa!” he says, pulling away so fast I stumble and nearly headbutt him on the way down.

Ah. Not a booty call.

The humiliations pile up faster than bodies in this neighborhood, and that’s saying alot.

“Soooo you have a lot of art supplies,” I say, staring at his shelves of paint and craft supplies so I don’t have to look at him. “What’s your, ah, favorite?”

“Mo,” Benny says quietly. “I had no idea you were interested. I’m sorry if I led you on.”

“No no,” I say, my face hot enough to melt the ice cream I’m going to bury it in later. “My fault. I don’t know why I did that. Force of habit, I guess.”

“Habit?” Benny laughs. “Uh, thanks?”

It’s true though. Since the moment Chris and I broke up, I’ve beenon the prowl. I thought I was just massively horny but is that all it is? Holy crap, am I... afraid of being alone?

Dammit. I donotneed more personal growth to think about right now.

I turn back and thrust out a hand. “Friends?”

“Yeah, obviously!” He hugs me. It feels good, actually, to not think of him that way. He pulls out of the hug and grins. “But if you don’t start taking care of the dogs, I will call the cops on you.”

He pats Jean’s head, and I finally see what he’s talking about. Their fur is gnarly and dirty and Jean has an actual pretzel stuck in there. Their legs are stubbly, and they look like they’ve gone feral.

I may be a hot mess, but they don’t deserve to suffer for that.

Benny’s shelves and shelves of art supplies aren’t just paint—my eyes rest on a cubby of craft supplies, including wacky hair dyes, and a very bad idea hits me.

“Hey, does the muse allow you to do other projects while you’re waiting on her feedback?”

It only took a little arguing before I got my way.

Turns out, Benny is a real pushover.

We’re on the floor, on a tarp, and he’s holding a pair of shears. I’m holding Louis XIV. Louis XIV is holding grudges.

There are puffs of dog hair all around us.

At first, Benny pointed out that he couldn’t possibly give the dogs haircuts because he’s “not a professional.” We weren’t going for conventional, I explained. We’re going for punk.

I still had Cran’s pickle-scented calendar in my bag, and since it features a month-by-month display of the poodles at the height of their well-groomed days, we propped it up as a basic guideline and then riffed. At this point, Jacques is already sporting a powder-blue1950s pompadour. It looks great, and he knows it too. He’s been posing in front of the mirror ever since.

Louis is a little less sold on the whole idea.

“Can you go any faster?” I ask as Lou squirms in my arms.

“No,” Benny says with a grunt as he carefully applies the clippers to one of the dog’s legs. “I cannot.”

“Maybe you could just try?”

“Haveyouever tried to give a dog a haircut?”

“No.”