by Lia Riley
Chapter Eight
Pepper sipped her second cup of coffee and ignored her wristwatch ticking down the seconds until she began her new (temporary, but oh-my-God-this-is-happening-what-is-life?) occupation: Ruff Love dog walker. How wonderful that she’d graduated cum laude from NYU Law. Preparing to counsel, strategize, write, advocate, and negotiate would surely be assets in a role where her main responsibilities were keeping pups moving in a forward trajectory and not getting too pooped to scoop.
That second duty should be underlined and highlighted. Otherwise she was liable to be hit with Mayor Marino’s new dog waste ordinance, $75 for each offense. A fine that would come out of her paycheck. Norma’s otherwise cheerful letter of employment didn’t mince words in that department.
She wasn’t looking to break rules. Or even get noticed around town. If a single solitary word—or worse, a photo—of her dog walking leaked out in social media, she’d never be able to show her face at an NYU alumni event.
She stood and drained her mug in one long swallow. This was pointless fretting; word wouldn’t get out. For the next few months, her life would be simple: head down, walk the dogs, collect the paychecks, save the money, and get the hell out of Dodge by the time her lease expired with enough socked away to put down first and last month’s rent in any city in America. Because by then she’d have secured another job offer (please, Sweet Baby Jesus) and this strange Georgia summer could be her dirty little secret.
She glanced out the window, wiped her mouth, and blinked. Then she blinked again, in case “hallucinating half-naked men” could be added to her list of troubles. Nope. This was actually happening. Rhett Valentine sauntered into the bedroom opposite her window, dressed in nothing but a low-slung gray towel, jaw slathered with shaving cream.
She swallowed hard. He didn’t look like the gym rat cover of a men’s fitness magazine. No pretty boy waxed chest and six-pack here. He rocked a hard torso dusted by dark hair. A strong, capable, male body, built to be used, not for looks.
Especially not her own pervy peep show.
Her heart paid a friendly visit to her lower intestines as he’d reached into his closet, fisted a T-shirt, and disappeared without an inkling of her creeper status.
“Right.” She stood. Time for Neighbor Crush Training Number Two. Today’s lesson?
Leave it.
Closing the blinds would be too obvious, so instead she retreated to the safety of the kitchen. Every step returned a feeling of control. In her normal world, a silly crush would be harmless. But this was purgatory. Ogling the neighbor’s sexy bod wasn’t going to get her out of here. Ain’t nobody got time for that. What she did have time for was lifting her mind out of the gutter and getting together a game plan. First step, not succumbing to the gut-twisting terror of dog walking. She had faced a serious setback and needed to prove that she wouldn’t be destroyed by fear. Her clients were dogs, not hell demons, precious pets to Everland’s old and infirm. She could do this.
Correction.
She would do this.
Five minutes later, she marched to her first appointment, a soldier heading into the front lines.
“Turn left onto East Forever Lane,” a crisp male British accent said. She’d reset Siri’s voice last night after watching the lake scene from the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice twenty-four times (stopping only because her laptop ran out of batteries and she was too lazy to fetch the charger). If one couldn’t have a Darcy in the bedroom, why not have a Darcy intone directions?
“Proceed down the route and the destination is on your left.”
“Forty-two, forty-three, ah, here we are. Forty-four Forever.” She paused in front of the Drummond house. The ornate gables made it look like a wedding cake. Norma had passed Rhett a series of instructions for each client. Mr. Drummond was at dialysis Tuesday mornings, and his Chihuahua, Wolfgang, waited in the backyard.
A perfect first client. Its teeth were the size of Tic Tacs. If it bit her, she could pop it in a six-inch sub and eat it for lunch. Not that she’d do that. Probably.
The garden was neatly ordered, shrubs trimmed to perfection. No leaf out of place. She let herself through the gate and froze. The spotted Chihuahua in the center of the lawn wasn’t growling with a look that said, “Death, from the ankles down!” No. He was too busy committing obscene acts on a throw pillow. Moves that might be illegal in thirteen states.
What was the etiquette for hound humping? Should she look away? Shoo it off? She glanced up instead. Not a cloud in the sky. Oh, a butterfly. How ’bout that.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Scratch that idea. No point focusing on anything when that dog was going at it like this was his last day on Earth. Pepper grabbed the leash hanging next to the grill. “Hi there, Wolfgang. Yoo hoo. Over here.”
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
She’d sweated blood and tears in law school for this?
Pushing aside a fleeting wish for a hazmat suit, she dropped into a crouch and advanced. Where was she going to grab him? The little fella was gyrating in a manner that would make Elvis eat his heart out. Under his forearms seemed like the safest plan of attack. That was about as far as one could get from the danger zone.
She advanced arms outstretched. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four. Almost there. Wolfgang froze mid-pump, tail and ears fully alert. His pointed nose turned up, sniffing.
Before she could react, he’d ditched the pillow like yesterday’s news, in favor of a new lover. Her left leg.
“No! Bad dog!” This pint-sized pervert made her want to belly flop into a kiddie pool brimming with Purell.
In addition to violating pillows and an innocent pair of LuLaRoe leggings, Wolfgang’s other pastime included ignoring dog walker commands, because it took her ten minutes to disentangle the little sucker from her person and wrangle him onto a leash. Another four to reach the sidewalk.
By the time she arrived at the dog park she was dripping sweat. Satan called and wanted his weather back. She took a swig from her water bottle, the ice cubes melted already. If she listened hard enough she might hear her thigh fat frying. Taking another gulp, her gaze connected with a dog—specifically, a brass statue of a one-eyed dog peeing on a fire hydrant. The plaque mounted to the base read DAVY JONES: WHO KNEW WHEN TO GO.
Now there’s something you didn’t see every day. Then again, Everland, Georgia, wasn’t your everyday sort of place.
The park was busy. Every bone-shaped bench was occupied by chatting duos or trios, while a dozen dogs frolicked on the off-leash grass area. Wolfgang hurled himself at the melee, either frantic to play or into autoerotic asphyxiation. The latter was not entirely out of the question.
She bent to unclip the leash and he nearly tugged her arm from its socket. “Sit,” she hissed. “Sit down already! Help me to help you.”
At last she maneuvered him free and he took off like a shot, bolting to the middle of the pack. He barked a few times and half a dozen furry heads turned in her direction. Wolfgang was no doubt telling a few tales. And the dogs weren’t the only ones staring. The park vibrated with a strange tension, the same phenomenon that occurred at Smuggler’s Cove a few days ago. No one directly stared, but there was a disorienting sensation of having all eyes fixed on her. The faces weren’t unfriendly, but it must be similar to being a new kid at school, standing in front of the class and hoping everyone liked you—or at least didn’t actively dislike you on sight.
There was something to be said for the anonymity of a big city. Growing up in Moose Bottom, everyone knew everyone. The bank teller remembered how she’d spent the summer before first grade speaking duck (quack once for yes and twice for no). And it was impossible to take the swaggering deputy sheriff seriously knowing that he had once been kicked offstage for playing “Jingle Bells” with his armpit during the high school talent night. Plus, you always knew who was up or down on life’s teeter-totter on any given week.
Right now, Pepper was down. Way down. If there was roc
k bottom, not only had she hit it but she also was digging to see if she could strike the water table.
Turning toward a shady patch under a wide oak, she recoiled. A hulking razorback boar blocked her path. Maybe it was a statue, an incredibly lifelike statue able to simulate breathing.
Nope.
That was an actual boar sizing her up, snuffling closer as if searching for truffles. A prominent ridge ran down the back of his thick, brown coat, bristly as a wire brush.
No one said a word. Everland’s suspicion of outsiders hadn’t translated into feeding them to swamp dwellers, right? The boar’s tail swished, and she took a step backward, colliding into a wall that hadn’t been there before.
“Looks like Dude has taken a shine to you,” a voice boomed.
She glanced over her shoulder. The so-called wall was a middle-aged man clocking in at around six-foot-five. A Santa Claus doppelganger, if Saint Nick sported a ginger beard, freckles, and matching thick gold-hoop earrings.
“Who do we call?” she stammered. “The police? Animal control?”
The man cocked his head. “Why’d we do that?”
Was he on something? “There is a giant pig five feet away,” she hissed.
“Dude? Oh, that troublemaker’s all mine.” The man tipped back his leather hat with a friendly chuckle. “And I’m the General.” He didn’t look the military type, but maybe had been in undercover special ops. Deep, deep undercover. “A semi-professional reenactor, among other pursuits.”
She tilted her head to the side. “War reenactment?” Where grown men donned costumes and pretended to shoot each other?
“Revolutionary mainly. The Second South Carolina Regiment is a particular passion of mine, and I make a point of going to Colonial Williamsburg every—”
“That’s enough, dear. Unless you want to put her to sleep before you’ve introduced me.” A stocky man with a buzz cut and well-defined brown biceps covered in geometric tattoos came from behind, patting the General on the lower back. “Please forgive my handsome husband. He does go on.” He made a talk-talk-talk sign with his hand.
“Allow me to present Colonel Jim.” Pride tinged the General’s voice. “Not your fast-food fried chicken kind either. We’re talking actual bona fide military service to this great nation. United States Marine corps, two tours overseas.”
“Lieutenant colonel.” The man smiled. “Happily retired.”
“Hey, does Dude seem hungry to you? I think he looks hungry.” The General answered his own question. He reached into his shoulder satchel and removed a plastic bag of peaches. Colonel Jim didn’t bat an eye.
“Here, Dude, fetch.” He removed a couple peaches and tossed them over the boar’s snout. The beast ambled after its prize. “I’ve had him for near going on seven, no, eight years. Rescued him as a piglet from being roadkill on a backwoods stretch of Florida highway. He was easier to domesticate than this handsome cat.” He inclined his head toward his partner.
“You bring a wild animal to the dog park?” Had she forgotten to take her crazy pill this morning? No one else appeared unsettled in the slightest. The creature had tusks, for Pete’s sake. Long and pointy ones.
“Don’t get him started, darlin’,” Colonel Jim muttered.
“How else is he supposed to get his exercise?” the General blustered, glancing between them.
Pepper wrinkled her brow. Maybe it would be best to speak slowly. Use short sentences. “That animal is not your run-of-the-mill pink farm pig.”
“Pink?” the General blustered. “Dude’s a razorback boar, through and through. But don’t worry about him hurting more than a flea. Why he thinks he’s a dog himself. Although, to be on the safe side, better not let Wolfgang wander too close. Keep an eye to the sky, too. A red-tailed hawk could swoop in and carry the lil’ fella off without so much as a please and thank you.”
Pepper’s polite smile faded. She’d been so wrapped up in protecting herself from dogs—and boars—that she hadn’t considered protecting her clients, especially from being eaten. Add that to her job responsibilities, right below poop scooping.
“Haven’t seen you at the store yet.”
“Store?” Pepper blinked up into the cheerful face of the pig’s owner.
“The General’s General Store off Main. Where we sell everything from eggs and milk to Ouija boards and socks.”
“He’s the face of the operation. I’m the brains.” Colonel Jim placed a hand to the side of his mouth, stage whispering: “He’s not allowed to talk to new customers.” Returning to a normal volume, he continued, “We’re a high-end small goods shop providing Everland with artisanal foods, household items, and books.”
“Sounds good. I’ll keep you in mind the next time I want to make a milk shake and conduct a séance while keeping my feet warm.”
“Ha. You’re funny. I like it.” The General’s grin revealed two gold teeth. “Now tell us what everyone here is thinking but only we’re men enough to ask.”
Colonel Jim rubbed his hands. “What’s the scoop between you and Cupid?”
Her brows knit. “Who?”
“Rhett Valentine, of course.”
The General broke in, “The one. The only. The legend.”
Pepper shook her head, feigning ignorance. It didn’t matter if it was Moose Bottom, Maine, or Everland, Georgia, small-town gossip spread like weeds. Better not to give it fertilizer. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He rubbed his beard. “You two are front page news.”
“Today’s front page news is about the sudden spike in pecan prices.” Indeed, the headline had read NUTS ARE GROWING. Someone at the paper either had a sense of humor or was completely oblivious.
“Not the birdcage liner.” Colonel Jim waved a dismissive hand. “The Back Fence.”
“The Back Fe—”
“Well, well, well, look who it is.” The General cut her off with ill-disclosed glee.
Colonel Jim practically bounced. “Cupid at twelve o’clock.”
Pepper froze at the nickname. “Rhett’s here?”
“Walking this way.” The General nodded. “Want to wager how many times he’s turned up here in the last year? If you bet zero, you’d be a winner. You’ve caught his attention, missy.”
“Stop it,” she hissed. “He isn’t here to see me.”
“Then why is he standing right behind you?” Colonel Jim murmured. “Hello, Sport.”
“Nice try.” They were playing her. Sometimes it took a while, but she always caught on. These guys were having fun at her expense.
“Wondered if I’d find you here.” A molasses-rich drawl drizzled down her spine.
Rhett. He really was here.
She turned slowly. With any luck her flushed cheeks would look like a by-product of the heat and not his inadvertent morning peep show. He wore a dress shirt, vest, and tie with a pair of dark denim jeans, his eyes bright behind his thick frames, his unruly cowlick swooping over his quizzical forehead.
Stop ogling. Speak.
“Hello.” Her mouth lifting in what hopefully passed for a casual, neighborly smile.
“You’ve got something there.” His fingers skimmed the shoulder of her T-shirt, brushing her neck almost unperceptively. “There.” He held up a white puff. “Cottonwood seed.” His lips curled in the corner, the half grin holding no hint that the quick touch was anything more than an accidental brush. It would be easy to dismiss except for the invisible wave of tension that connected their gazes—hot and unspoken.
She stirred and fiddled with her hair elastic. “Checking on me?”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, a paper cup of coffee in one hand. “I hit up Sweet Brew. Thought I’d come over and see how things were going on your first day.” He had perfect posture. Somewhere, once upon a time, a Southern mama had driven all signs of slouch from those shoulders. “Wanted to report to Norma on your success when I go visit her in the rehab center in a few hours.”
“Tell her things are und
er control.”
He stared at her a second or two, concentrating, this time the look more concerned than provocative. “Any fear cropping up?”
The fact he asked the question honestly, no trace of submerged amusement that she could be deathly afraid of a Chihuahua, thawed the cold, hard walnut lodged in her stomach, one she didn’t even know she carried. “Wolfgang and I are having a great time.”
“Yeah?” He glanced around, his brow drawing in. “Where is he?”
“Oh, right over there…” Her pointer finger wilted. “Or at least he was.”
“Near Dude?” Concern threaded his voice. The razorback snuffled amid tree roots.
“Oh my God.” Pepper pressed her fingers to her mouth. “That boar moves fast.”
Chapter Nine
Hold on, folks. Don’t anyone start losing their heads.” The General held up his hands. “Dude wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Pepper cupped her hands and called Wolfgang’s name. He had been right there a minute ago, sniffing around her ankles. “Are boars vegetarian?” she asked Rhett.
“They’ll eat anything that fits in their mouth,” he answered grimly.
Not the answer she wanted. Wolfgang was chicken nugget sized. He’d go down in a single gulp. “Form a search party,” she shouted to the growing crowd over her shoulder. No cause to panic. Yet. But definitely time to be proactive.
The General bristled. “I keep him spoiled on twice-a-day home-cooked meals. Dude is a friend to all dogs big, small, and yes, even miniature.”
“Too friendly.” Rhett crossed his arms. “This is why I spoke out at city council about letting a razorback boar have park privileges.”
Colonel Jim drew himself to his full impressive height and linked arms with his partner. “Now see here, Sport, the council voted five to four in the General’s favor. Dude is legal.”