Which meant she could kiss good-bye the idea of making any real headway on the paperwork, Bo thought as she pushed back from her desk and went to the Mr. Coffee sitting on top of a double-drawer filing cabinet in the corner, which was located there for the sole reason that there was an electrical outlet behind the cabinet. There was about half an inch of dark sludge left in the carafe from . . . this morning, maybe. Hard to tell. It had been there when she arrived a little after noon, so for all she knew, it could have been there since yesterday afternoon.
She took the carafe into the bathroom, dumped out the sludge, rinsed, then ran fresh water. Coming back into the main office, she began the process of making coffee. “So who were you having beers with?” she asked, not bothering to point out that if she were a real stickler about things, she’d arrest Daina for public intoxication because obviously she wasn’t a stickler. From her point of view, it wasn’t as if Daina was staggering drunk, and she’d done the responsible thing by not driving and electing to come here instead. Bo’s philosophy was don’t bitch about what works.
“Kenny Michaels. I’ve decided to go ahead with remodeling the kitchen, and we were going over what I want, paint colors—my gawd, I think I’ve looked at a gajillion paint chips. Stuff like that.”
“So what colors did you decide on?” While the coffee was brewing, Bo stepped into the so-called break room—it was originally just a large closet—stocked with a refrigerator, microwave, tiny table, and two chairs squeezed into the space. She opened the top freezer compartment of the avocado-green refrigerator, which of course refused to ever give up the ghost the way any decent-colored refrigerator would have, and took out a pint of ice cream. Well, it had originally been a whole pint, but now it was down to half that. She didn’t know if Daina liked vanilla ice cream; tough cookies because it was all she had. She levered off the top, found a spoon, stuck it in the ice cream, and set the cardboard carton in front of her friend. “Eat.”
Absently Daina obeyed, her thoughts elsewhere. “A sort of pewter-ish gray, with a grayish blue,” she replied, still on the color theme. “Not very kitcheny, but that’s the whole idea. I don’t want anything that stimulates my appetite or makes food look good. I want something calm and soothing . . . you know, so I’ll stay away from it.” She stopped, pulled the spoon from her mouth and stared at it. “The hell? This is ice cream,” she said, frowning down at the carton as if she had no idea how it had come to be in her hand.
“Five points for observation powers.” Bo resumed her seat. “Kenny Michaels, huh? He’s kind of cute.” And he was, in a construction, hammer-hanging-from-a-loop-on-his-pants kind of way. Not tall, but not short, a muscular kind of stocky. Divorced, late thirties, one son who was a senior in high school. She didn’t know anything bad about him, which meant there probably wasn’t anything bad to know.
“Of course. Why else would I renovate my kitchen? And why am I eating ice cream?” Daina still looked perplexed, but she dug the spoon in and lifted a bite to her mouth. “Not that I’m complaining, but I just had dessert at lunch.”
“It helps sober you up.”
Daina’s eyes went wide. “No shit.” Awestruck, she lifted the carton and stared at it again. “A legitimate reason for eating ice cream? There is a God!”
At that moment Tricks was evidently struck by the abrupt realization that someone in the room was eating, and it wasn’t her, because she surged to her feet and planted herself directly in front of Daina, her extravagantly plumy tail gently swishing, her dark gaze locked on the carton of ice cream.
Daina froze with another bite halfway to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed, as motionless as if she were being confronted by a cobra rather than a golden retriever. “What do I do?”
Bo hid her amusement. “Tell her no. She can’t have ice cream.”
“No?” Daina said weakly, her tone of voice making it more of a question than a statement. Tricks sensed an advantage and moved closer, laying her head on Daina’s knee and giving her the full, soulful stare that had turned rough men, much less a half-drunk friend, to putty in her paws.
Bo sighed. You couldn’t give in to Tricks because she then concluded that if she just kept after you long enough, you’d eventually give in, and she was relentless in her efforts to get what she wanted. “Tricks, no,” she commanded. When Tricks didn’t move, she said, “Young lady, I said no.” She clapped her hands twice. “Go back to your bed right now.”
Reluctantly, Tricks moved away, her expression as mutinous as that of a thwarted toddler, but she padded back to her bed and lay down with a huff . . . and with her back turned toward Bo to show her indignation.
Bo barely swallowed a snort of laughter. Dealing with a canine diva—moreover, a very intelligent diva—was never boring and definitely kept her on her toes. She was the only person Tricks would obey when it didn’t suit her, which meant Bo pretty much had a constant companion. She didn’t mind; she adored her dog, though during that first tumultuous year she’d often felt like tearing out her own hair in frustration. As alpha as Tricks was, Bo had had to prove over and over that she was even more alpha, and only the fact that she controlled the food had won the day.
Daina hurriedly downed more ice cream. “She scares me,” she confessed.
“Yeah, that’s why you’re down on the floor playing with her so often.”
“I didn’t say I don’t love her. I said she scares me. If she lived with me, I’d be her slave.”