Page 14 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

He actually smiles a little, and I think my spin is starting to work. My mom would be so proud.

“Maybe we could get coffee,” I add with a grin. “How’s Friday?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can squeeze out the “sounds good” that I so desperately need, a car horn blasts. We both turn to look.

No. Not now.

The seafoam Kia Sportage, poodle ears blowing in the wind.

And it’s racing toward my intersection. Meanwhile, I’m halfway up the block with Mark, and if I turn my back on him, he’s going to see the vest balled up in my waistband.

But also... on the far side of the street, a distracted dad scrolls on a phone, and his kid barrels toward the curb, totally unsupervised.

Comeon, universe. This feels downright biblical. Do I seriously have to choose between Mark (glorious future) and some random kid (shitty present)?

I watch in horror as the Kia closes in.

And it is not slowing down.

Chapter 5

The dad chuckles at something on his phone.

The child pirouettes off the curb.

Shitballs.

“Sorry, Mark, just a sec!” I sprint to the corner and leap into the street, yanking my vest out of my butt and waving it overhead as I reach for the kid.

“Stop!” I yell. “Crossing guard!!!”

Somehow I manage to grab the kid’s sleeve and pull him toward me, just as the engine revs and Poodle Dude blows through the stop sign. I can feel a breeze as the sideview mirror barely misses us, and once we’re clear and safe on the opposite curb, there’s a loudcrunch-crunchsound from the general vicinity of the Kia.

Brakes screech as the car skids to a stop, and I’m suddenly being hugged by the dad, who has run across the intersection and is now incredibly grateful that his kid narrowly escaped extinction, when we all hear Poodle Dude yell in a gravelly faux-French accent, “Jacques!Dites-moi!Tell Papá what hurts!”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him talk, and his voice is weirdly raspy—not how I imagined he’d sound, but then again, the guy probably yells at everybody.Except, apparently, his dogs, who are now getting some spectacular French baby talk.

“Mon petit garçon doux!”

The dad recovers enough to let me go, and we both turn to watch as Poodle Dude leaps out of the car, runs around the front, and flings open the passenger door. The guy throws himself halfway inside.

Where he clasps a limp poodle body to his chest.

He wails.

It’s like a scene fromLes Misérables.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

“Jacques!”Poodle Dude wheezes. He shoots me a vicious look over his shoulder. “What did the mean lady do to you?”

Mean lady— What?

But before I can process what’s happening, twootherpoodles hop from the back seat to the front seat, the limp poodle pops up, good as new, and all three of them are suddenly having a massive sniffing party.

Okay, I think,terrific.Poodle drama resolved.

I am wrong.