The Moment of Truth

“I’m already on my way,” she said. He heard her car start. “I’ll stay with him until you get home,” she told him.

“Thank you.” He pictured the pup, the kennel, and swore silently again. “If the kennel’s a mess just set it outside the door,” he said. “I’ll clean it when I get home.”

She was going to wait for him. Would be there, in his home, when he arrived.

The idea shouldn’t feel so good.

“It’s probably going to be fine,” she said. “He went to the bathroom just before I left. And he hasn’t had dinner yet.”

Way to rub it in. “I know.”

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay,” she said. “He’s only been alone for a little over eight hours. Some folks have to leave their dogs for that length of time every day.”

“Not locked in such a little cage.”

“Yes, some are locked in little cages. Now let me get off the phone so I can drive.”

“I thought you were already driving.”

“No, I’ve been stopped at the end of my street waiting to hang up. Drive carefully and I’ll see you in a few.”

Drive carefully. It was as if she cared.

For him. Selfishness personified.

The woman was a fool.

Josh was going to have to save her from him.

Soon.

Real soon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE KENNEL WAS FINE. Little Guy, while rambunctious as heck, and gobbling his food like he was half-starved, was fine, too. Josh, on the other hand, looked as if he’d seen a ten-car pileup on the freeway.

All because he’d left his pup for an evening?

His concern was sweet.

She didn’t really understand it. She stayed and talked to him—about the collection of dog treats she’d put together for him from the Love To Go Around stash, which was why she’d called earlier. She figured he could test out various ones, the way he was doing with his soaps. Soon he was grinning like the Josh she was coming to know, and she said she had to go home and get a few hours’ sleep before class in the morning.

Josh insisted on following her home.

“That’s crazy,” she told him, standing in the doorway of his house, refusing to move.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” he insisted. “I won’t come in. But it’s late, after midnight, and you’re out alone on my account.”

“This is Shelter Valley. And besides, I’ve been going out alone at night since I was old enough to drive, in a city much larger than this little town.”

He followed her, anyway. And it wasn’t until she was inside her duplex and glanced out the front window to wave at him that he finally left.

* * *

ON WEDNESDAY, DANA came home for lunch to find a plant sitting outside her door. A live plant, not cut flowers.

The card read, “I figured you’d appreciate something that would live over something that would soon die. Thank you. Josh.”

Dropping her backpack to the cement on the front porch, she carefully picked up the pot and carried it inside. She was not going to cry.

That would be dumb. He’d merely said thank you.

But she’d never had flowers sent to her before. Had never dated a flower-sending kind of guy.

She retrieved her backpack. And texted Josh’s number.

The plant is wonderful. Thank you! She added a smiley emoticon, and then deleted it.

Sixty seconds later she received a text in return. Glad you like it.

Leaving the text on her phone, she went about her business. Made spaghetti sauce from scratch. Lori was coming over to spend the night—she had an exam the next day and was finding it hard to concentrate in the dorm—and had mentioned that she missed her mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce. With the pet-therapy trip late that afternoon, Dana wasn’t going to have time to make dinner before Lori got there, so she was doing it on her lunch break.

Understanding that the girl was having a hard time dealing with hurt feelings over her best friend’s defection and her father’s decision to bond with the guys over Thanksgiving, Dana accepted the exam excuse at face value.

Fifteen minutes after she set down her phone, the text message notification sound rang.

It could be any number of people texting her. Including her sisters, who texted her now and then.

L.G. just tripped and turned a somersault.

Grinning, she quickly and one-handedly returned:

Reminds me of his dad.

When did I ever trip?

The ground beef browning, she used a spatula with one hand and texted with the other.

Not the tripping part, the turning somersaults part. You don’t have to work so hard to get things right.