Page 20 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

And I do, suddenly, want to ask her... everything.

Holy crap, why am I blushing? And sweating? Is this an arrhythmia? I’m probably too young for hot flashes. Right?

She gives me a smile and the back of my neck is suddenly on fire.

Is this... a crush?

Well, shit. That changes things.

I haven’t crushed on a girl since I was in college, and then I was with Chris forever, so it wasn’t an issue. And look, I am still with Chris in my heart—plus I am here to take some initiative and resolve an alarming misplaced revenge scheme—sohey body, why the head-to-toe flop sweat event?

Thankfully, AMA Tasha doesn’t seem to notice. She points sternly at the floor, and the mop-shaped dog lies down obediently. She gives him a little dog cracker.

I get it. I would beg for a little dog cracker from her.

Mo, down!

I distract myself by peeling a poster off my arm. Discount tickets to theCounter-Productive Lover Improv Show, it tells me.

Too soon, poster. Too soon.

Tasha scratches the dog’s ear. “He’s usually better behaved, but he’s on new meds, and I think they’re making him cranky,” she says, shrugging.

“It’s fine,” I say, pushing my saliva-drenched hair out of my face casually, as if I didn’t think I was about to die just a second earlier. “I needed a bath.”

Tasha laughs. She has an amazing smile, and a gorgeous mass of curly dark-brown hair with just the slightest hint of auburn, which she’s only semi-successfully pulled back. Behind her oversize glasses, she’s got huge brown eyes, and she’s smiling at me in a way that makes me glad I already have a reason to be wobbly.

Get a grip, I tell myself.Alderman. Poodle Dude. Remember?

“So I have a question—” I say.

“Aha! The AMA button works!” She grins. “We just got these. Here, have a seat, we can talk at my desk.”

“I’m Mo,” I say, following her.

Her desk—a beige metal monstrosity from another era—is just plopped right there in the middle of the open room. It’s piled with folders and books and papers and a plastic “inbox” that has an enormous stack of notes in it.

There are a couple fuzzy, gray-walled cubicles stuck together toward the back, and behind those, there appears to be an actual office with a door on the far wall. The ceiling hums with those buzzing fluorescent lights we had in grade school.

“Is this your dog?” I ask, as the dog flops down and puts what I assume is its face on my shoe. I can’t see its eyeballs under those mop-strings of hair. “Actually, is this evenadog? I’m honestly not sure.”

She laughs again.

Is there any chance I could forget about Poodle Dude and the alderman? Just stay here all day and try to make this hot nerd laugh?

“Not my dog, just the resident demon,” she says, ruffling the huge mop’s head. “A veryfancydemon who does competitions and everything, doesn’t he? Yes he does!” The mop pants and drools and limps around in a circle, trying to catch his own tail. “He’s our official mascot.”

“That’s a thing? Alderman mascots? Do you also have like ahuman-size suit of him that runs around at basketball games and block parties?”

“Ha, I wish! That would be incredible!” The dog nuzzles her, and heck yeah, good choice, dog, I want to do that too. I have to force myself to concentrate as she keeps explaining, “He belongs to Alderman Carey’s wife, and they both work here so Charlie keeps me company most days. Except for the days he’s winning awards for being such a good boy.”

He wags enthusiastically at the praise.

“I didn’t know dogs could look like that,” I admit. “Like sentient mops.”

“He’s a Puli. Not a super common breed.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially, like she doesn’t want Charlie to hear us. “He can be a little high maintenance. Total diva.”

“Same,” I confess.