Stepdog Read Free

just so you know, it was my favorite sacking ever,” I said as I tucked away my wallet. “You sack most excellently.”
    â€œDo I?” she asked, biting her lower lip so adorably it made me want to nibble on it with her. And in a suggestive tone: “You want me to sack you some more?”
    She said that! She said it!
    I can’t even remember what I said in response, but she didn’t slap me, so it couldn’t have been too crass. I do remember that I pulled her chair out for her, letting my hand brush along her bare upper arm as she rose. I felt the electricity and saw her shiver a bit; she smiled over her shoulder at me and I was the happiest unemployed man on earth.
    We waved to Mario as we left. “Ciao!”
    He beamed a big smile to Sara and, with a grin, gave me the finger . . . Wanker. Sara cracked up. Then he said, gesturing us closer, “Slán leat.”
    I stopped short, amazed. “How the fuck do you know Irish?”
    Mario smiled nostalgically. “Ah, it’s a long story,” he said. “I met a beautiful redhead once . . . but not so beautiful as your lady. Signora, if he doesn’t behave himself, remember I’m here, yes?” And, of course, he winked at her.
    I could have kissed the bastard, because that was a fantastic excuse to put a protective arm around her and pull her toward me. She did not resist, and she fit under my shoulder as if we’d been carved from the same block of wood. I’d never been so happily aware of every atom on the whole left side of me as at that moment.
    T HERE WAS A bench at the bus stop; we sat there and let a bus or two go by first, just sitting in happy silence side by side, our shoulders and upper arms pressing against each other in the swampy August night.
    â€œI’m so glad I fired you,” she said. “If you were around the museum now, I’d get in so much trouble.”
    â€œI’d sue you for sexual harassment,” I said.
    We finally got on a 39 bus, still shoulder-jostling all the way out to Jamaica Plain, where we hopped off by the Monument. We strolled down Centre Street, toward the roundabout. Anticipation made me silent; she looked at me adoringly but had not yet officially invited me in, and this was all happening so fast. As we approached her building, I made a mental note to myself not to be presumptuous about what would happen once we were inside, but I knew, even as I made the note, I would misplace it. I wondered briefly, again, if I should tell her about getting married, but shelved the idea at once; it had nothing to do with what was going on between us here, and I didn’t want to ruin the mood. I’d tell her tomorrow, if it seemed relevant.
    She opened the outer door, then pivoted left in the hallway to open the inner one. The dulcet tones of an NPR commentator droned from within.
    â€œThat’s a feeble deterrent for burglars,” I told her. “I put right-wing talk radio on really loud when I go out—that stuff would scare anyone off, even the most zealous vandal.”
    She gave me a skeptical look.
    â€œNot really,” I admitted immediately. “I don’t even lock my door, to be honest. I believe what’s meant to be mine will remain mine according to karmic law, and whatever I’m meant to lose, I’ll lose with or without locks on my door.”
    â€œThat’s a bit fatalistic,” Sara said, fishing in her purse for her keys.
    â€œOf course it is, I’m Irish, ” I said.
    â€œI hadn’t noticed,” she said.
    As Sara opened the door inward, she made a cooing noise and stooped down to greet the dog I had forgotten about.
    I’d have taken Sara for a rescue-dog type, but this mutt held itself with the grace of a pedigreed champion. It was typical dog size, I s’pose, with a warm golden coat, and intelligent, bright brown eyes. Its entire torso was wiggling with excitement, but it hardly made a noise