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called upon to do so.
    “No, you said ‘holy jebus,’ which I assume means you have some sort of a speech impediment that makes itimpossible for you to say the word ‘Jesus’ correctly. What do you have in that bag? It smells like shit.”
    “It is. Well, dog poop, that is. And I don’t have a speech impediment.” I straightened my shoulders, and clutched my bag of poop. Clearly, that would serve as a weapon. If not one to disable, then one to disgust my attacker into giving me time to escape. “‘Jebus’ is a polite way of saying ‘Jesus.’ You say it when you don’t want to offend someone, such as when you’re in company with a person whom you don’t know, but want to swear at nonetheless. I don’t know you. I do want to swear at you. Hence, jebus.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. “I have done nothing to justify you attacking me with dog shit, or swearing at me. Who are you, and why do you have Lenore Faa’s dogs?”
    “Look, you annoying man, I am the victim here. I am the startlee, not you, and thus, I have the right to swear, and ask questions of you, not vice versa. Besides, it was just the bag that hit you in the face—not that I tried to punch you in the face with poop; my arm kind of flew out when I jumped back—and, I’d like to point out, not the actual dog poop itself. Clothilde, don’t sniff his shoes. He is a clearly a bad person.”
    I swore the man ground his teeth at me. I took a moment to stop being irritated and look at him. Just in case I’d have to describe him to the police, you understand. The pugs had all stopped barking and were happily snuffling around his shoes—expensive-looking shoes, ones with a high-gloss finish that I bet wouldn’t last too long in the woods. He already had a smoosh of mud on one side of his right shoe. He wore black jeans, and an olive green shirt with the sleeves rolled back to show nicely muscled forearms.
    I liked his arms. They weren’t too hairy, the way somemen’s arms get, but not plucked-chicken naked, either. They looked like strong arms, competent arms. Arms you could trust.
    “Well, that’s it, I’ve lost my mind,” I muttered as I dragged my gaze off his arms, and up to his chest, where it stopped, my brain just kind of grinding to a halt altogether.
    Clothilde and Frau Blucher stood on their hind feet, their little paws on his legs, and whined to be picked up.
    What were the odds, I asked myself, of meeting in one single day two men who were clearly displaced male models? The man before me had one of those chests that you want to touch, all manly bulges and swoops of muscle and tendon and warm, sleek flesh visible even through his nice, normal cotton shirt. I enjoyed watching those muscles move when he bent to pick up the two pugs, tucking then both into one arm, and fondling their respective ears with a large, masculine hand.
    I liked his hand, too. It looked…sexy.
    “If you continue to stare at my chest in that fashion, I will be forced to agree with you,” the man’s voice said, finally penetrating the haze of lustful bemusement that had me in its grip.
    “Hmm?” I shot a look at his face. He was frowning. Dammit, he was even more gorgeous than Gregory. Although this man was as dark as Gregory was blond, he had eyes that I realized with a start were violet. “Just like Elizabeth Taylor.”
    His gaze raked over me. “You are a very pretty woman. No, more than pretty. And yet, you have red hair and green eyes. Thus, although you’re quite attractive, you do
not
look like Elizabeth Taylor.”
    My face turned pink with mingled embarrassmentand pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, but I have strawberry blond hair, not red. There’s a difference. Besides, I never said I looked like—Terrance, down! We do not get busy with people we have just met, especially when said people jump out and try to scare us to death.”
    “I did nothing of the sort.” I watched his mouth for a few seconds before forcing myself to look into