The Ex Files

Chapter 4 - Brooks

"Don't hurt Muffy!"

Hurt her? If Briley didn't get the mutt under control, I was going to stuff it in the fifth hole and plant the flag in its— Ally's yelp of pain sent me lurching to my feet. One of the chihuahuas had sunk its teeth into her shoe, and the crazed look in its eye as it braced its tiny feet and tugged made me wish I owned a gun.

"Get these dogs away from us right now."

"Muffy, come here, sweetie," Briley cooed.

The modern incarnation of Cerberus whirled around us like a beige-and-brown tornado, teeth snapping. Muffy ignored Briley completely, something I wished I could do, and doubled down on her efforts to prise the shoe from Ally's foot.

"Don't just call her; pick her up."

"Are you crazy? I might get bit."

I made an attempt to grab Muffy myself, but she jumped sideways and turned those beady eyes on me. If Satan had a pet, this would be it. The dog stared at me. I stared at the dog. Which of us would move first? And how solid were my golf shoes?

"Git away, dang varmint!"

A golf club sliced past me, Muffy leapt out of the way, and the clubhead connected with Ally's shin. Another yelp, and tomorrow, I'd sign up for shooting lessons.

"What the fuck?"

Dirk van Bolder—oil baron, southern gent, and high-functioning alcoholic—raised his club for another swing.

"Guess my aim's not what it used to be. Quick little critters, aren't they?"

I caught hold of the shaft and hung on before he could do any more damage. Briley had gotten Muffy onto a diamond-studded leash, but that still left four more untrained devil hounds running riot around the tee. Four furry piranhas hunting for flesh. Okay, three—one was busy squatting in a bunker, and I was a hundred percent certain Briley didn't carry a pooper scooper in her purse. When I was a kid, I'd always wanted a dog, but my first stepmom's allergies meant I got tropical fishes instead. After the divorce, I'd held out hope, but my second stepmom had hated dog hair, and my third stepmom had hated dogs, period. And at this moment, I was seeing the advantages of neon tetras and cory catfish.

"Dirk, put the damn club down," I said.

"We're being invaded. It's every man for himself."

Ally was halfway to her feet, and I grabbed her hand to pull her the rest of the way. Fuck, she was shaking. Her contract said no touching below the waist, but seeing as she'd already groped my junk today, I figured she'd give me a pass if I ignored that particular clause for five minutes. She gasped as I hoisted her up into my arms, bridal style, then clung to my neck as Dirk began flailing with his five iron again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the official photographer snapping away and swallowed a groan. I attended these events out of obligation, and my only goal was to get in and out in the least painful manner way possible, hence hiring Ally. Today was proof that money couldn't always buy simplicity.

A small crowd had gathered, not too close, but a gasp went up when one of pint-sized wannabe wolves launched itself at my leg, teeth bared and—

A piercing whistle stopped the dog in midair. It plopped to the green like a furry grenade and crouched there, quivering—with fear or with rage I couldn't tell. Ally's grip on my collar tightened, and I risked turning my head in time to see Molly Singleton striding toward us, her "I take no shit" gaze fixed on the spawns of Satan.

"Sit," she barked.

The four dogs not squirming in Briley's arms sat, and Briley's hapless assistant lowered his ass a few inches before realising the comment wasn't aimed at him.