A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

Irrational jealousy rises in my chest as Katrina—the lord of the flies, if I’m sticking with my bad bug analogy (and I am)—does her best contortionist impression, bending herself practically in half over the top of the high reception counter. No doubt to get closer to Eli. While also giving him a clear view of her cleavage. And demonstrating her flexibility. Like I said: flies. Katrina says something I can’t hear. Eli jolts a little at the sight of her, then pointedly fixes his gaze in the opposite direction from the low-hanging boob fruit she’s dangling right in front of him. Right at a poster about the importance of spaying and neutering your pets. No one ever said the ambience in an animal shelter was romantic. “Hot Puppy Guy is a snack,” Beth says, and I do my best not to visibly cringe as I step away from the door. “He has a name,” I remind her. “It’s Eli. And you can’t say things like that.” “You can’t tell me not to.” Beth crosses her arms. “You’re being ageist by implying I’m too old to use the term snack. Or to appreciate a snackable”—I flinch again—“piece of man.” “Beth, please. It’s as much about objectification as it is your terminology. He’s not a piece of anything. He’s a person.” “I’m not objectifying your boyfriend. I’m appreciating his personhood. Like he’s a fine wine. Or a Van Gogh.” “You are literally illustrating objectification right now. And, once again, Eli is not my boyfriend.” But I sure wish he were.