Page 6 of Wanting the Winger

His thick, dark brows dip inward. “Say what?”

“That it’s a useless degree.”

“Why would you assume that would be my reaction?”

“I’ve heard it a million times, especially from my father.”

“I’m assuming you’re passionate about art.”

“I am.”

“What’s your medium?”

“Paint.”

His eyes drop to Brutus lying on the sidewalk next to him. “I should’ve guessed.”

I smile. “Yeah, but I prefer painting on canvas to painting living creatures,” I droll. “But pickings are slim.”

“What would your dream job be?” he asks.

“I’d love to work with children in some capacity.”

“Like an elementary school art teacher?”

“Maybe. But schools are cutting art programs to make their limited budgets work. I think I’d prefer to work with an organization that helps at-risk youth. I’d like to show them how amazing art is. How therapeutic it can be.”

“Then you should.”

“I wish it were as easy as you make it sound.”

“It’s like that saying, where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he says.

“I get that. And I know with hard work and determination I’ll get to the place I want to be.”

Leaning forward, he rests his forearms on the table, showing me I have his full attention. “Then what’s got you so stressed out?”

“Mostly my boss. She’s horrible to work for.”

“Can you find another pet salon who’s hiring?”

“Probably, but this one is conveniently located. And it’s not like I want to do this for the rest of my life. This is just a filler job while I’m working toward my dream job. But I need to keep a roof over my head. Dog grooming doesn’t pay very well. On top of that, this morning my car started making a god-awful noise. So now I need to get it in the shop to figure out what’s wrong before I break down somewhere. In anticipation for the repair bill, I asked my boss for more hours at the shop but she doesn’t have any available.”

“Can you go to your parents for help?”

He must have a good relationship with his own parents if this is his first suggestion. Not all of us are so lucky.

“And get another lecture about my poor career choices? No, thanks. I’d rather eat ramen only for the next year. But enough about me. What do you do for work?”

He shifts on the seat, adjusting his long legs under the small table. “I work with athletes.”

“Are you a trainer?” My eyes glide across the width of his shoulders before taking in the way his button-down shirt hugs his muscular arms.

“I wear a few hats, but that’s one of them.” He doesn’t elaborate further.

“Nice. Have you been doing that for long?”

“Yes, right out of college.”