Prancing of a Papillon

What People Are Saying

Excerpt from Prancing of a Papillon

“Woof.”

“Yip.”

Jericho Jones slid a big hand down the back of each of the two dogs that occupied his lap. Technically, according to some silly restaurant law, they were supposed to be on the ground, but Café Z was lenient on the patio. Hell, half the people in Corona del Mar had meals with their dogs, so Z would have lost most of their customers if they weren’t flexible.

Jericho whispered, “It’s okay, boys and girls. I’m nervous too.”

“Yip. Yip!” Killer, Jericho’s twelve-pound cairn terrier, leaped up and licked Jericho’s face.

Jericho giggled and wiped the slobber, but from Jericho’s other leg, Killer got a look of total disdain from Batshit, the eight-pound Papillon with ears the size of Nevada and an attitude far larger. Her withering expression said, Barbarian.

Jericho had borrowed Batshit from his friends, Finn and Em, for his blind date because she had impeccable taste. Jericho figured if the guy he was meeting for lunch passed the inspection of Batshit, he must be okay. Killer didn’t like much of anybody, so he wasn’t a good judge of character. Mostly, though, Jericho had just wanted the two dogs for moral support. He was crap at blind dates. Hell, he was crap at all dates, and if this one didn’t work, he’d pretty much decided to call it on social life.

“Woof.”

Jericho looked down at Bat who was staring toward the entrance to the restaurant patio. Deliberately, he raised his head. Standing inside the gate from the sidewalk stood a medium-tall, slim, fair-haired man who looked like Draco Malfoy grown up. He wore skin-tight gray jeans and a form-fitting white sweater that might be silk—or maybe nylon. Could he possibly be for me? The photo his blind date had posted online was from a distance, which was usually bad news, and all Jericho had really seen was pale hair. But this guy was tres cute.

Jericho put the dogs on the slate of the patio—amazingly, they let him—and rose. If the man turned out to be somebody else’s date, and that was likely, Jericho could pretend he’d been looking down the street. The guy glanced toward him and Jericho felt his hand raise on its own. A slow smile spread over’s the man’s face and he started toward Jericho. Be still my foolish heart.

He stopped on the other side of the table and said, “Jericho?”

“Yes, Malcolm?”

“That’s me.” He flashed white teeth and pressed a hand to his chest. “Man, how did I get so lucky?”

Right off, that worried Jericho, but he said, “I, uh, was just thinking the same thing.” He couldn’t quite stifle his giggle. He only giggled when he was nervous. “Please sit down.” He waved a hand toward the chair next to him.

The slight crease that popped between Malcolm’s nearly invisible eyebrows then vanished almost elicited a sigh from Jericho. Right, why couldn’t he learn to move his hands like a regular person—no, make that regular man—instead of some flaming ballet dancer? Don’t give up yet. Jericho sat and, of course, Batshit leaped immediately onto his lap. Killer had found a twig and was determinedly chewing on it, so he left the date interview to Bat.

Malcolm startled back in his chair, “Oh! What in the hell is that?”

Jericho smiled and resisted the urge to respond with Duh. “A dog. Actually, a Papillon, the princess of all dogs.”

“Oh.” Malcolm looked at her suspiciously and Batshit stared right back. He flipped his gaze up to Jericho. “So tell me, how tall are you?” He put a hand under his chin.

Oh dear. “I’m six foot five.”

Jericho wanted to move his lips with Malcolm’s next question he’d heard it so many times. “I’ll bet you played football in college.”