Page 104 of Just One More Thing

CHAPTER 27

EMORY

We’re halfway to Tug-A-Shore when the crowd makes a collective noise.

I turn just in time to see a pack of dogs plow directly into the lemonade stand.

A pug and a French bulldog grab the last of the cookies in a coordinated heist. The basset hound comes stumbling behind them, tripping over his own ears, while a yellow labrador sticks his entire head into the cooler.

“NO!” a twelve-year old shrieks, already far too late.

The lab emerges dripping pink. Strawberry lemonade streams down his face and neck.

For one suspended second, the entire crowd freezes.

Then—

He shakes.

An arc of pink sugar water sprays across the first three rows of folding chairs. Miss Hattie takes it directly to the face. She peels her glasses off, wipes them with the bottom of her shirt, and yells, “Worth it!” The crowd erupts laughing.

The basset hound somehow hooks the spigot with his paw, and suddenly strawberry lemonade is pouring freely down the folding table like a pink waterfall. He lumbers over and drinksdirectly from the cascading stream. A beagle darts underneath and reappears dragging a bag of ice twice his size.

Meanwhile Hank—who has been watching this entire situation with profound moral judgment—decides chaos looks fun.

He lumbers forward with the speed of a determined ottoman and barrels directly into the ice bag.

The plastic splits.

Ice rockets across the shell path.

The lab attempts to flee the scene of the crime, loses traction on melting ice, and slides directly into Ryan’s legs. Ryan barely rocks backward before calmly scooping the pink stained retriever up mid-slide.

“Time-out,” he says, tucking the dog under one arm.

The crowd applauds.

The lemonade kid looks seconds away from crying. “It’s okay,” Jake says, already moving. He rights the cooler, catches the empty cookie tray before it hits the ground, and starts mopping lemonade with a stack of napkins somebody hands him.

The little girl behind the stand sniffles while the lab licks lemonade off her cheek. “That tickles,” she says giggling. Then she wraps both arms around the dog’s neck. “It’s okay, boy. We were almost sold out anyway.”

Mrs. Kravitz raises her scoring paddle.

“Five,” she announces.

Hank, now fully emotionally invested in the disaster, claims a single ice cube as his prize and trots proudly toward the shade.

Wayne points dramatically at the pug. “That one’s the ringleader.”

The pug wags his curled tail faster.

Jake slides his hand around my waist and steers me gently out of the splash zone. “Still having fun?” he asks quietly.

My hair smells like fish. The air smells like lemons. Hank is upside down beneath an oak tree snoring with an ice cube slowly melting beside his face.

“This is the best day of my life.”

Jake laughs under his breath and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Does that mean you’re up for some more?”