Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Dominic sends a wary glance their way, and mockingly assumes a decent Karate Kid-esque crane kick stance. “Back it up, Marion. You don’t want this smoke.”
As if he understands the challenge in Dominic’s words, the flamingo starts honking loudly at the invader in his pond. Kaa-hooonk, kaa-hooonk. He adds in a few beak clacks and wing flaps too.
“Probably should’ve asked this sooner,” Dominic grits out as he lowers his leg and goes back to rooting around, trying not to swallow any of the gross water, “but are flamingos mean? I’d rather not get an eye pecked out, if possible.” Dominic sputters as he throws a few handfuls of weeds far away from the drain and the flamingos.
“I don’t think he’s trying to attack you,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide my laughter.
Dominic glances from me to Marion, realization dawning. “Oh no, not interested in your mating dance, either, birdie.”
I do laugh then. I can’t help it. Dominic looks ridiculous, neck deep in the water with a pink flamingo inching closer with those high-knee steps like he’s sneaking up on the big behemoth of a man.
“Look out, he’s gonna getcha!” I taunt.
Dominic tosses a few more handfuls of sludge away, and after a moment, the water starts to drop to normal levels. Standing up tall to survey his handiwork, he grins. “I did it,” he says proudly.
He is covered in mud, his wet clothes clinging to him, and when he threw the debris, some of it landed on him, so he has a few blades of grass on his hat and a streak of questionable origin on his cheek. He looks adorably, boyishly dirty. “Yes, you did,” I agree, nodding.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks, growing suspicious. Looking behind him, he grunts, “Where’s Marion?”
Right then, Jonah returns. With the extralong-handled rake that we typically use to clear the clogs, which we use from the platform on the edge of the pond, where the process is relatively no muss and no fuss. I usually only get my boots muddy and that’s it. I’ve definitely never gone full-dive into the habitat. I don’t think anyone has.
Wind taken out of his sails, Dominic sags. “Oh.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him as he starts to wade back out of the water. “Your way worked. And the flamingos will be talking about you for months. Listen.”
I point to where Marion has rejoined the flock and is honking like, You’re never gonna believe the shit I saw.
“I just wanted to help,” he grumbles.
“Recent events notwithstanding, I don’t always need help. But thank you for wanting to.” I am grateful for his assistance. I don’t like needing it, or being seen as someone who needs to be rescued, but I do appreciate that his instinct is to be a helper. That’s a rare and special trait in my book.
“Well, at least I made you laugh,” he says, the self-deprecation out of character given his usual cockiness.
“Laugh?” I ask, and he nods.
“I’d wrestle that damn bird every day if it means making you laugh again,” he says softly, and my heart races in my chest. The way he looks at me, he knows it too. He’s proud of what he did, like my laughter belongs just to him.
Maybe it does.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a change of clothes from the gift shop as a thank-you. If they have something to fit you.” I take his measure visually, reminded again how muscled he is. I doubt they’ll have anything properly in his size, but there’s not really any other option. Dominic is covered in stinky mud, and as it dries, it’s going to begin to flake off, making a mess in his truck.
In the end, we scour the gift shop’s stockroom for anything remotely his size and we’re able to get him a pair of orange swim trunks, a neon-green T-shirt with the zoo’s logo emblazoned on it, and a pair of flip-flops left over from the Fourth of July sale. None of it is ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers, or at least they shouldn’t be when the alternative is going naked.
Although it might be interesting . . . in a purely scientific way, of course . . . to see Dominic nude. All those muscles would be a textbook study of anatomy and physiology, a class I’m suddenly remembering with new appreciation.
“Here,” I say, handing Dominic a beach towel, also with the zoo’s logo. “You can wipe off with that. It won’t help with the smell, but at least it won’t be seeping into your pores anymore.”
His brows knit together, and he sounds worried. “This smell is seeping into me? Like I’m always gonna smell like shrimp and shit?” He rubs the towel furiously over his face and then along his arms as I laugh.
My laughter dies in my throat when Dominic reaches down and pulls his ruined shirt over his head in one fell swoop, revealing a body that will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. I swear to God the man is built like a brick shithouse, as my dad used to say. Or probably still does. I wouldn’t know since we barely talk.