“I said, just a minute!” I whistle for Swarley. He comes right to me.

A miracle.

“Hold still.” I rest my injured hand on his back to steady him while I move in for the kill. “Hold still!”

He wiggles, arching his body to sniff the pad in my hand.

I chase him in circles. “Swarley! Would you just stop and hold still?”

True to his evil nature, he wiggles more, whipping the turd every which way, making it impossible to nab it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I glance back at Jake as I continue to chase the turd in a circle. “He has a chunk of poop dangling from his backside. Do you really want him getting in the back of your truck with it?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, widening his stance. “Hurry up.”

“Hurry up?” I step away from the chase, squaring myself to Mr. Not Helpful.

He grins that perfect surfer grin, with his stupid, perfect hair all perfectly messed up, and that annoying twinkle in his blue eyes.

I hate him.

“Yes. Chop chop, Avery.” He glances down at me with amusement gleaming across his face.

My teeth gnash together. “I have one good hand.” I hold up my left hand and move my puppet pad in his face.

A single eyebrow lifts up his forehead. “Is that a period pad?”

“Hold Swarley.” I shoot him a narrow-eyed challenge.

After a stare-off, I win. Jake brushes past me and hugs Swarley to his body. “You’ve got ten seconds before I leave you behind to work for Carley.”

I lift Swarley’s bobbed tail and grab the hair-bound turd. “Got it.” I stand.

Swarley dashes off to the truck when Jake releases him.

I grin, feeling a mix of disgust at the turd in the folded pad and a twinge of triumph that I got it without getting any poop on my hands.

Plop.

The pad slips out of my hand, landing turd side down on the top of my sandaled foot. “Eww!” I jerk my foot, but the moist turd is stuck and so is the pad. “Eww eww eww … get it off!”

“Clean up and get in the truck.” Jake saunters off, leaving me jumping on one foot while trying to fling off the turd and pad with my other foot.

The growing crowd at Carley’s produce stand watches in amusement. The burn of embarrassment crawls up my neck. I bend down and flick the pad off, leaving a smeared streak of shit on my foot and the toe strap to my sandal—my $300 Italian leather sandals.

I stomp back to the truck with a permanent cringe of disgust affixed to my face. Jake rubs a hand over his mouth. The bastard is laughing at me.

“Don’t speak.” I reach over the seat and grab his water canteen.

“That’s not—”

“Shut it!” I snap, shooting daggers at him with one look.