Page 68 of How To Plot a Payback

“Kim named her,” he says, waving his sandwich in the air. “What was I supposed to do? Rename her Butch at three years old?”

I whistle at Miles, and he looks up from sniffing the backside of another dog across the yard. “We both know why you kept the name. If you changed it, where would your perfect pickup line go? How would you ever meet women again?”

And it was true. Chris and I have been coming to this same dog park as far back as I can remember. For quite some time it was the four of us—Chris and Kim, Delilah and me. Then it was just Chris, Delilah, and me. Then just Chris and me.

And although Kim’s negligence and spiteful intentions landed Tarte on his doorstep (she never really was an easy one to root for), what she really did was provide Chris with what I believe with all confidence is the most successful pickup line of all time. It’s not even a line, actually. Just a word. He can say one single word, and—bam—next thing you know he’s knee-deep in conversation with whichever female he wants.

Because if there’s one thing women in my experience seem to appreciate, it’s men who like dogs. Men who take incredibly feminine dogs under their wing in a time of need are especially admired. And men who can show they have taken incredibly feminine dogs under their wing from ex-girlfriends are gold-star caliber.

Responsible, empathetic, confident, caring men.

Chris can get a first date in a heartbeat. (The second, third, or fourth is another matter.)

And all he has to do is say the word. Call her by name. Show the world this dog is his. Tarte.

The midmorning sun beats down on the dirt where Miles and a dozen or so dogs race around a large fenced-in area so new that the tags on the fences still whip in the breeze. Light glints off the white Hollywood sign on the hill in the not-so-far distance. A group of tourists pulls in and huddles up outside the fence to take photos with the sign in the background. Parking is brutal, as it always is on Saturdays at the most popular dog park in LA. But overall, Lake Hollywood Park is manageably underpopulated today, possibly because the late-February wind is bringing us down to a positively Antarctic fifty-two degrees.

Truly.

A woman in front of me is wearing a shining white ski jacket, faux-fur-wrapped hood cinched tightly around her head. A two-year-old is running around in snow bibs.

I roll up my sleeves partway to the elbows.

“So. How’s life out of the kiddie ride?” Chris says.

I hesitate.

It’s still a bit of a sticky conversation point.

Chris has come to refer to Neighbors as a move into the big leagues, while we both know very well he is my former boss—one of several—from Higher Stakes. Had I not been hired back on to Neighbors two weeks ago, he would’ve been my only shot at trying to persuade Emmy, the showrunner, to give me back my old job. But then they, too, have a sticky history—she once succumbed to the magnetism of Tarte.

Suffice it to say, I’m just glad I was never put in a position to ask.

“It’s good,” I say. I hesitate, scratching the back of my neck. “I’ve been made executive.”

He nearly spits out his sandwich. “You’re kidding,” he says.

“Co-exec,” I clarify.

It’s a toss-up as to how he will take the news. It took him fifteen years to get to executive level at Higher Stakes, and we both know staff writers on Neighbors get more slaps on the back than anyone at Higher Stakes.

But to his credit, he gives a nod of approval.

“That’s incredible, man.” He throws Tarte a piece of his waffle. “Looks like you made the right move. It’s always a gamble, isn’t it?”

“A gamble I’m still playing, actually,” I reply.

He raises a brow.

“It’s fine. I’m just learning pretty quickly why Goodwin keeps a revolving door on the writers room.”

He tosses another piece of waffle to Tarte, who takes it and trots off, stubby tail wiggling.

Then in the distance, I hear a woman’s voice I recognize.

“You gotta be kidding me. Nancy just emailed to ask if I was interested in Stephouse for the fall.”

“To guest star?”