Sher Lee

Which will give our takeout’s name a whole new meaning, since I’ll have to wok back. Megan hates my bad puns.

But he’s not my type, especially when he’s glaring at me like I’m a piece of gum stuck to the sole of his calfskin loafers.

Maybe it’s for times like this, when the delivery guy has had a tough night and could use a pick-me-up. Okay,

“Dylan got chewed out on a delivery,” Megan tells her. “But all he can do is talk about the customer’s hot boyfriend like he’s a piece of steak.”

Clover’s running around, alternating between chasing her favorite spiky rubber ball and attacking the laces of my sneakers.

I point my hand at Theo, keeping it extended. I step closer to him and touch his shoulder—the sign for a friendly stranger I’ve been teaching Clover to recognize. It worked with a couple of regulars at the dog park, but this is the first time I’m testing it out on someone she’s never seen before.

“Our weekly special is xiao long bao,” Tim says. “They’re five ninety-five for eight, so a hundred dollars gets you a hundred and thirty-four of them.” He doesn’t need to touch the calculator.

“Fresh every day. My aunt would never let us get away with serving ready-made frozen ones. Want to try eight for now?”

“Sure,” Theo replies. “Especially since you made them.”

I can’t help but smile.

“The change will pay for sushi on my mom’s day off.”

“Hang on, I thought I was getting a lap dance?” Theo deadpans.

“You could ask about his underwear size. He looks like a medium to me.” She smirks. “It’s a little hard to tell with his pants on.”