by Kate Angell
Hesitant, she asked, “What might that be?”
“We’ll discuss it later.” When they both had time. “You’re still on the clock.”
She glanced at her watch. Almost four. Owners would soon be picking up their pets. Unleashed offered door-to-door service. There’d be a short list of dogs to be driven home. She hoped the VW bus would be able to make the rounds without another mishap. She drew in a breath. “Back to Unleashed.” She pushed herself up. Dusted off her hands.
His own hand wrapped around her ankle. “Stand still,” he said when she would’ve sidestepped. He tied her shoelace. “Don’t want you tripping, walking Turbo home.”
Home. Permanence. All of them together under one roof. Warmth filled her chest. Unexpected. Unexplained. Uninvited.
He looked up then, his gaze hot, touching on her legs, belly, and breasts. Her hips shifted. Fluttery stomach. Then her nipples did the unthinkable—they pointed at him.
Wicked grin. Perceptive man. Joe hopped to his feet with the grace of an athlete. Smooth. He lightly brushed her damp bangs off her sweaty forehead. Then skimmed a finger down her nose. He traced her lips. Upper and lower. They parted. Hopelessly breathless. She was slow to recover.
He raised the collar on her polo so he could look underneath. His thumb massaged her hickey. “Fading,” he commented, before readjusting the neckline.
His bite would disappear. Yet the memory of his teeth scraping her neck, his warm breath, lingered. She’d dabbed on flesh-toned concealer that morning, but it had long since worn off. She’d been careful to keep her collar in place all day—until her run after Turbo. The chase had left her disheveled. She tucked the ends of her shirt into her shorts. Exhaled.
“Behave,” Joe said to Turbo. He handed her the dog’s leash, then retreated to his car. The Jag was a two-seater. She and Turbo wouldn’t both fit in the car with Joe at once, so the two of them walked back to Unleashed while Joe drove behind them. She felt him eyeing her butt.
“Heel,” she commanded. The rottie cooperated. No tugging or pulling. He slowed to her pace. She talked to him, gentle-toned. “No more chasing down Etta.” The word Etta had Turbo’s ears twitching. He recognized her name. He whined. “I know you like her. It’s only your first day, and she could still come around to you. Give her time. No roughhousing. No humping. Play nice.”
Turbo eyed her, as if taking in her advice. “Don’t tell Joe that I’m on your side. He’d have a fit. Etta’s a very sweet bulldog. Princess Pom-Pom—with the rhinestone tiara and painted toenails? Sorta stuck-up.”
Turbo nudged her hand with his nose. Agreeing.
Joe met them back at the dog care. He parked his sports car in the side driveway, alongside the house and out of view, then met them on the veranda. He held the door for her as they entered. Twyla and an older man were standing just inside the entrance.
“There’s someone here to see you, Joe,” Twyla announced. “George Eagan, from Rug Doctor.”
“My rug man,” Joe was quick to say.
“My niece, Stevie,” Twyla went on, including her.
George shook everyone’s hand. He was a nice-looking, well-dressed older man, Stevie thought. Dark hair, a hint of silver at the temples. Classic black glasses. She noticed how his gaze shifted back to her aunt. His gray eyes brightened. Twyla had more color in her cheeks than she’d had for days. A soft, responsive blush to the man. Interesting. Her aunt had never married. Animals had been her life. And there was no ring on George’s finger. Not even a white mark. Male companionship in her aunt’s future would be nice.
Stevie unhooked Turbo’s leash, set him free inside the house. He surprised everyone by lying down by the office door. She regarded her aunt. “We’ve had our adventure for the day.”
Twyla nodded sympathetically. “So I heard. Berkley was worried sick when you took off after Turbo. She’d been handing out snacks. She came and got me, thinking I should be on-site, so here I am.” She lightly touched Stevie’s arm. “You’re back now, dear. Happy ending.”
As happy as it could be, after an escapee. Stevie was grateful that Berkley had enlisted her aunt. A responsible move on the young woman’s part. She’d acted quickly. Out of chaos had come calm. Order had been restored.
“Where’s the rug in need of repair?” George inquired.
“Upstairs,” Joe told him. He turned to Stevie. “We’ll need to enter your bedroom.”
She nodded. She’d made her bed that morning. No clothes were strewn around. Joe led the way to the stairs. George followed. The older man paused at the bottom. He glanced over his shoulder, sought out Twyla, and asked, “Will you be here when I return?”
Her aunt’s breath hitched, ever so softly. “I’ll be in the kitchen, preparing supper. Do you like cheeseburgers, George? ”
“Very much.”
“Might I prepare one for you?”
“I’d like that.”
Politeness had Twyla including Stevie and Joe. “Lori’s away for the evening. How about you two?”
Stevie liked burgers, but not tonight. She sensed a hint of romance in the air, and she decided to let her aunt and the rug doctor explore their feelings for each other. She shook her head, said, “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ll make the VW run to take the dogs home. I’ve got plans for later.”
“Plans with me,” Joe inserted. “Dinner date.”
Twyla raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since now,” affirmed Joe. Surprising Stevie. He had apparently picked up on the vibe between her aunt and George, as well. He was freeing up the house for them to be alone. Generous on his part. Sensitive for such a hard-ass. But he didn’t have to include her. She could find her own fun.
“There’s an all-you-can-eat fish-fry special at Molly Malone’s Diner tonight,” he added. “Stevie likes snapper.”
“She does?” Twyla was skeptical. “I’ve never seen her eat more fish than a tuna salad sandwich.”
Stevie tolerated seafood, but it wasn’t her favorite. Joe had put her in an awkward position. She was hungry, and would enjoy dinner out. She momentarily considered a disguise. Going incognito. Floppy hat, sunglasses, baggy clothes. Ducking her head. Walking several feet behind him. Joe would think she was crazy. And she would be, taking such a chance. Someone would surely recognize her.
Gossip was a favorite pastime on the boardwalk. Their dinner could appear to be a date to the casual observer. Word could easily reach DJ that she’d shared a meal with his nemesis at the popular boardwalk restaurant. Her cousin was already dealing with a severe sunburn. No need to raise any concern over her and Joe. Supper at Molly Malone’s wouldn’t happen. However tempting. She couldn’t be seen with the Rogue.
“Fried snapper, French fries? I’m there,” she tentatively agreed. Cancellation of the date would soon be forthcoming.
“If you’re certain,” from her aunt.
“Absolutely,” Stevie reassured her.
Joe moved the night along. “Then I’ll meet you at Molly Malone’s in an hour,” he suggested. “Workable?”
Stevie nodded half heartedly. She crossed the hallway to check the sign-out list. Three dogs were in need of a ride. Two boxers, Truman and Capote, and a Pekingese, Ming. “I’ll load the dogs into the VW and head out,” she said.
“Turbo can stay here while you two have supper,” Twyla offered. “Not a problem.”
“I had a Rottweiler as a boy,” George said, smiling at the memory. “Great dog. Protector, babysitter, and companion.”
“We’re good, then,” Joe said, as he climbed the stairs ahead of George. The two men reached the landing. Joe pointed out Stevie’s bedroom.
“George seems like a nice man,” Stevie casually commented. “I hope he can fix the rug.”
“Even if he can’t, it’s been a pleasure meeting him,” Twyla said softly.
Stevie collected three leashes, hanging from a long peg near the front door. She whistled for the boxers and the Pekingese. The dogs immediately came to her. O
nce they were leashed, her aunt held the door for her. Twyla gave her shoulder a squeeze, smiled, and said, “Enjoy your supper.”
Stevie grinned back. “Enjoy yours more.”
Her aunt’s cheeks pinkened in a flattering blush as Stevie and the dogs departed. She loaded the three in the VW bus, and they immediately lay down. Destination, south side of town. She keyed the ignition, and Otis turned over with a chug and tailpipe smoke. She crossed her fingers on the steering wheel, and hoped the vehicle would make the rounds one more time. She backed out of the driveway. Accelerated. The bus crept up to thirty miles per hour.
Cutting through town wasn’t an option. Tourists preferred to cruise Gulfshore Boulevard, a palm-lined street that ran parallel to the beach. Lots of vacation action. Bumper-to-bumper traffic. Slowing and stopping for red lights might kill the engine. Permanently. Her alternative, Ten-Mile Sand Dune Drive that skirted Barefoot William. She took the back road.
Her stomach growled as the bus bounced over the dirt and gravel. Supper would come eventually. Just not with Joe.
* * *
Joe Zooker entered Molly Malone’s Diner on the corner of Center Street and the boardwalk a few minutes ahead of schedule. He was looking forward to seeing Stevie. He was surprised by how much. Readiness tightened his gut. He’d never had first-date jitters before. They weren’t fun.
The Please Be Seated sign freed him from waiting for a hostess. The atmosphere was casual and bustling as he made his way to an open corner booth. He sat on a black leather bench, his back to the wall, and rested his elbows on the white Formica table. Steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Breathed deeply.
The polka music from the carousel entered with the next group of customers. A family of six. Joe glanced out the wide front window that faced the pier and carnival rides. He caught the first turn of the merry-go-round. The Ferris wheel circled slowly, while the swing ride whipped out and over the water. Neon lights flickered, revitalizing the dusk. Crowds thickened on the boardwalk and pier. Weeknights felt like weekends at the beach.
Joe scratched his chin. It was a public place, he was alone, and a few people approached him. Fans wishing him well for the upcoming season, and several seeking his autograph. He made small talk and signed carryout menus and napkins, until waitress Sally Ann welcomed him with a glass of ice water, a paper place mat, and napkin-wrapped silverware. His fans dispersed, but the stares continued. Sally Ann relayed the nightly specials: meat loaf and a chili bread bowl.
No fish fry, he mused, smiling to himself. Fish had been the first thing to cross his mind when he’d proposed a meal to Stevie. They’d be away from Unleashed, which was all that mattered. He’d noticed the sparkle in George’s eye when he’d looked at Twyla. And Twyla could barely catch her breath. Love at first sight, or longing for companionship? Happiness either way.
George had indicated that he could fix the braided rug. He’d need to roll it over, but he had the tools and know-how to get the job done. Satisfactorily. Twyla seemed pleased with his return downstairs. Joe believed they’d be seeing the man long after the repair was complete. The two had a tangible spark between them.
That catalyst had prompted Stevie’s agreement to meet him at Molly’s. She’d obviously wanted to give her aunt and the rug man time alone, too. Turbo wouldn’t be a problem. The dog adored Twyla. He’d fall asleep at her feet.
Sally Ann approached him a second time, order pad in hand. He told her to give him a few, that he was waiting for someone. She brought him a complimentary plate of cheese nachos. He polished it off. Checked his watch. Almost seven. Stevie was late. That left him uneasy. He wondered if she was standing him up. Always a possibility. Just when he thought she might be into him, she backed away.
Frustration settled into the booth beside him. Hell, he’d even changed clothes for the woman, leaving his Blue Balls T-shirt and aging jeans on the floor of his bedroom. Took the time to select a lightweight cream pullover and khaki slacks. He looked decent, with no one to impress. Stevie wasn’t all that impressionable. Still, he’d made the attempt.
He debated ordering. Thought about leaving. A long waiting line had formed at the door. Weaving around the corner. He was taking up valuable space. Sally Ann needed to turn over her tables. Tips were all-important.
He motioned to his waitress. “Appreciated the nachos,” he told her. “My date’s running late, and I’m not going to tie up your booth.”
She winked at him. “Sit as long as you like. I’m in no hurry for you to leave. A Rogue in the restaurant brings in more business.”
Despite her offer, he was ready to go. He didn’t do alone well. He liked company. A nearby table of women glanced his way. A redhead patted the empty chair next to her. An invitation for him to join them. He smiled in their direction. But he didn’t approach. He’d come to Molly Malone’s to have dinner with Stevie. No one else.
Wallet out, he handed his waitress a twenty. Big tip for little service. Turning slightly, he nodded toward the five ladies still eyeing him. He drew out a fifty. Passed it to Sally Ann. “Their supper’s on me.” He wove around the tables to the door.
Where to next? he wondered while standing on the sidewalk. He needed to locate Stevie. Standing him up was one thing—he could live with that, despite his disappointment. But what if something had happened to her? That possibility bothered him most.
Concern walked with him to his sports car, restlessness on his heels. He removed several pieces of paper from beneath the windshield wipers. His Jaguar was well-known. He collected a fistful of women’s names, phone numbers, and sexual proposals, then climbed into his vehicle and tossed them into the glove box. The space overflowed. He shoved hard to get the compartment closed. Next car wash, he’d clean it out.
The engine ignited with a guttural rumble. His sports car had never failed him. He’d had great make-out sessions on the front seats. He’d finessed around the stick shift. But he’d never gone all the way in the car. Tonight, no sex. He needed fresh air to clear his head. He had a need for speed. The Jag was fast.
Ten-Mile Sand Dune Drive came to mind. Desolate at this hour. Only townies traveled the road to avoid city traffic. Pedal to the metal, he could punch the accelerator, howl his freedom for a few miles. Nothing crazy, just a fleeting mental release.
He rolled down the windows, moved into traffic. He traveled the busy Gulfshore Boulevard for a short distance. People waved and called to him. A jogger ran beside his car. He felt like a one-man parade. The Joe Zooker float.
He cut down Gull Lane, turned onto Pelican Way, and connected with Ten-Mile. Headlight beams on high, he focused on the road ahead. Not a car, bike rider, or jogger in sight. No stray animals. His palms itched on the steering wheel. His legs flexed. He gunned the engine, fired through the gears. Zero to sixty in seconds.
His chest expanded. The Jaguar roared. Joe did, too. Wind smacked his face. His long hair blew wild. The pressure in his chest soon eased. He tapped the brakes, slowed. He felt better. Less irritated, despite the fact that Stevie had obviously ditched him. Should he find her safe, she would owe him an explanation. Perhaps even an apology.
He got clarification sooner than he expected. A half mile ahead, his headlights picked up the Unleashed VW bus, parked on the side of the road. It tilted, the emergency flashers dimming as the battery slowly died. A shadowed woman was bent over, elbows deep in the rear-mounted engine. She held a flashlight in one hand, what appeared to be tools in the other. She glanced up on his approach. Stevie. He wondered about her mechanical skills. She was stranded far off the beaten path.
He pulled in behind her. Watched through the windshield as she glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and he saw a flicker of surprise, unease, then awkwardness. She stomped her feet, shifted her stance, returned to the engine. He admired the sexy roll of her hips. Sweet cheeks. Nice legs.
His relief was short-lived. Realization sharpened. The VW bus faced north, far afield from Pelican Way, the road leading to the diner. She’d
been headed away from him. Shit. The truth hurt. She hadn’t planned to meet him after all. A punch to his gut.
Decency had him opening his car door. Setting his jaw, he slid out. She needed his help. He had a head for mechanics. He walked toward her, pebbles scattering beneath his boots. She twisted, faced him, a flashlight in one hand, a wrench and a screwdriver in the other. Two of her knuckles were scraped. The steam from the engine rose like a sauna, dampening her bangs and brow. Grease-smudged cheek. Teeth marks marred her bottom lip, as if she’d bitten down hard in her frustration. Her polo was wrinkled and hung outside her shorts. Her expression was defensive.
Neither initially spoke. He let his actions do the talking. He took the tools from her. Rolling his shoulders, he fanned the steam, and leaned forward. “Any engine noises?” he asked.
“Little rattle. Wheezing.”
“You should’ve pulled over.”
“Otis is always making odd sounds.”
Evaluation came quickly. The vehicle had drawn its last breath. He held up the dipstick. No oil. No sugarcoating. “Your engine seized.”
Her lips parted. Panic filled her voice. “Lori added oil yesterday.”
“You’ve got a leak. Didn’t the oil light flash?”
“It’s . . . broken.”
“Bad for you.”
“Can it be fixed?”
No good news forthcoming. “Irreversible damage, I’m assuming. Without oil, the seals and pistons scrape along the sides of the cylinder walls and cause permanent damage to the block. Your best option is a tow truck. Sell the bus for scrap.”
She pressed her palm to her chest. “Otis has always been a part of Unleashed.” She spoke of the bus as if it were family.
He went easy on her. “Otis wasn’t safe. You’re fortunate to have transported the dogs to their homes before it died.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I hate to break the news to my aunt. Another van isn’t in her operating budget. Even a secondhand one.”