by Brooke Moss
“I just got here,” I answer. “Has Clara tried any of the contests yet?”
“The agility course. Clara’s not fast enough to beat Toby’s dog. He’s a speed demon, but she put in a great effort and finished. That’s what matters. Will Bart try it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck, Bart!” She leans down and pets him between his long ears.
I weave through the crowd to the agility course and look around. Dave’s nowhere in sight. I get in the line. When it’s Bart’s turn, he makes it through the tunnel and over the ramp, and then as he’s done before, he suddenly loses interest, and stops to sniff the sand. The judge gives me a look of sympathy and jots down info on his score sheet. I sigh. Bart will not be winning a trophy for the agility course tonight.
Next, we wind our way to the Baying contest line. Bart didn’t get much exercise yesterday when I had him holed up in my room, so I’m hoping he’ll rally all of his pent up energy into the art of the howl. To hype him up, I kneel down and give him a pep talk. “Baying’s in your blood, little buddy. Beagles hunt rabbits and other small prey. Just bay your little tail off when it’s your time with that stuffed rabbit.” Bart barks at me. Well, he’s also barking at the hound, baying right now in the contest. I stand and inch up to number three in line.
When I get another tap on my shoulder, I have a sharp intuition I need to buck up and be strong. I turn slowly, with my heart thundering.
It’s Dave. He’s spruced up for this event, looking dangerously handsome in a navy suit jacket and dark jeans. He’s combed back his bushy brown curls. Spicy cologne wafts in my nose. I can’t help myself. I stare.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hello.” My eyes stay open but my heart is trying to close. Yet, I can’t just turn and walk away.
“What happened yesterday?” he asks. “I called and left messages. Didn’t you get them? I had an emergency towing situation.”
I look behind and in front of me. I don’t know these people but I’m sure Dave does. They’re going to get an earful. “You kept an awful lot from me, Dave. You didn’t tell me you had a son. How many more kids do you have? You never told me you’re married.”
“What?” Dave’s face is a swirling tsunami of emotions. His brow furrows in confused surprise, then he frowns angrily, which gives way to a glazed-eye, deer-in-the-headlights awareness. “I… I was working up to it. But it’s not what you’re thinking. Let’s go somewhere and I’ll explain.”
“Why now; just because I found out? You could’ve explained before we spent time together, before we kissed…” The guy in front of us with the Basset Hound looks around in a fake-casual way, to see who’s freaking out.
“Arianna, look I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was married.” A look of pure torment clouds Dave’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you my wife died, not far from this beach.”
The guy in front of me mutters, “Right on this lake. Hit by lightning.”
I gasp. My hand flies to my mouth. Remorse, like bile, pours in. “Oh, no.”
“Some things are hard to talk about, Arianna,” Dave murmurs. “Very, very hard. Near impossible.”
Onstage, the next hound howls his head off at the stuffed rabbit they dangle at him. A prize-winning howl, and I’m not sure Bart can best it. It sets Bart off and he launches into his own mournful cries that match my horrified embarrassment.
“Dave, I had no idea. I’m so sorry I—”
Someone’s dog must’ve bailed because suddenly, they are calling Bart’s name! “Bart! Next up, Arianna and her beagle, Bart.” The judge motions impatiently for us.
“I’m sorry, too, Dave,” I whisper. “Let’s talk after.” He nods, looking pale but relieved. As I hurry to the stage, I turn to see him giving Bart a shaky thumbs-up.
“Go get ‘em!” he says.
Bart is full of piss and vinegar and pent up energy. My burst of emotions surely rubbed off on him. Whatever the reason, he makes frantic circles, and when he sees the judge dangle the toy rabbit, he opens his muzzle and bays his little snout off! “Ra-hooo! Ra-hooo!”
It’s so desolate yet piercing, it drowns out the thumping country rock, and even the ruckus of people and dogs.
“Good job,” says the judge and jots notes on his memo pad. “You’re done,” he says to me. “The winners will be announced on the main stage at 10 pm.”
“Thanks,” I say. I give Bart a high value treat, as they say in the dog biz—in his case, a hunk of dried cod. He grabs it and chews voraciously.
Dave is waiting for me at stage left. God, I want to fold him up in a tight embrace. He looks so sad and overwhelmed. But we need to talk things through first. It’s more than just the cheating misunderstanding. “Where shall we go to talk?” I ask him.
“Is Bart done all of his contests?” That’s Dave, thinking of others before himself. I’m mortified I mistrusted him.
“Yeah. Nice of you to ask.”
He nods, no hint of a smile. “Want to sit by the water, over to the right, beyond the Palooza, where it’s quiet?” I nod. “There are some big, flat rocks over there.”
“Sure, sounds great.”
He’s taking care not to touch me, or even reach for my hand. We sit in a secluded area, shrouded from curious onlookers. The moon is up. It highlights the soft ripples on the lake.
“So, yes, I have a son, Bobby.”
“We met.”
“Marilyn was Bobby’s mom. We had him when we were quite young. I was eighteen. As the man in front of you said, Marilyn was struck and killed by lightning out here when she went fishing. I told her not to go. I used to plead with her, but…” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to talk someone out of something they love.” He gazes over at me.
My chest flutters with tenderness. “I’m so sorry it happened. You must have been devastated.”
“Completely. Utterly. It happened four years ago, and I still hate talking about it.” He sighs. “But I should have told you. I guess you found out yesterday Bobby is my son? Is that why you didn’t call me back?” I nod. “Forgive me, Arianna. That must have been a terrible way to find out.”
“It was. But I haven’t told you about my life either. I was with a charming but cheating A-hole for two years.”
“No wonder cheating was on your mind.”
I nod and let out a low snicker. “But you are so kind, so thoughtful, it was hard to imagine you cheating.”
“So when you put two and two together, and came to the conclusion I was lying, it must have felt so much worse.”
“You got it.”
“I would never.” He stares into my eyes, as if he’s seeing gold there. He leans in close, but doesn’t kiss me. He must sense we’re not done negotiating terms here. “I want you to know I haven’t dated since Marilyn. I’ve had panic attacks, and bad recurring images of her accident.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“It’s part of why I want to get out of the towing business. I’ve seen too many accidents, which give me nightmares, and trigger the whole lake tragedy again. Like a vicious cycle.”
“Oh, hon, you’ve been through hell. I had no clue.”
“You are the first person I’ve been interested in,” he admits. “You’re so incredibly beautiful,” he murmurs. “So smart and sexy.”
“You look pretty darn handsome yourself, David Jensen.”
“The way you say my name drives me out of my mind.”
I put a finger up to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell me too many wonderful things about me, yet. Because I have to ask, are we just floating in a summer romance bubble? Are we thinking realistically about our lives? Can you really picture yourself being with a city girl, through and through?”
He leans back on the rock. I’ve challenged him. “I’ve thought about this part long and hard,” he finally answers. “Sure, we’re different. But all couples have differences. Who would we be if we couldn’t work through them?” He chuckles. “I already love the city because yo
u live there.”
“Aw, Dave, so sweet. But—”
It’s his turn to press a finger to my mouth. “Shh, let old Dave talk a minute.” He’s so cute, I have to smile, and stay obediently mum. “Is it hard for you to see yourself with a country boy? Is that what this is really about?”
Just then, the strains of Bearhug and Tinsley’s soprano voice pierce through. Something about a cowboy and his loyal dog. Dave and I grin at each other.
“Can I answer your question?” I ask. He nods and takes his finger away. “I’ve thought about that, too. There are things I love about the Poconos: you, the lake, the space, the trees and clean air. I even like some of your ornery friends.” I elbow him as I say this. “Who knows? Maybe people would spring for pet portraits here. And if not enough people do, there’s the Internet, there are other markets, and bigger towns around here. I’m thinking of Honesdale, Scranton, and a drive to Philly once in a while. What I’m trying to say is ’we should never say never‘. I would make it work.”
“You sure?” His blue eyes gleam with light.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s my girl.” With that, he leans in dangerously close and opens his mouth. “May I?” he whispers, low and sexy.
“You may.”
We kiss long and hard, openmouthed. Blissful quivers dart through my body. He wraps me in his arms and pulls me in tight. His strong, firm chest pressed against me is heaven. Our hearts beat like wildfire, one upon the other.
Bart, who is sleeping peacefully on a grassy patch after his cod feast, yips once and then returns to dreamland.
After his first kiss in my kitchen, I dreamed of this happening every day, almost every hour. And now? It’s really happening. His spicy cologne is an aphrodisiac, goading me on, and on. I grab a hank of his hair and pull gently, and he cups my head, as we lower ourselves down on the big, flat boulder and we nestle together, entwined.
“I love you, Arianna,” he whispers in my ear and then kisses it.
“I love you, too, David Jensen.” I nip his ear, which inspires his groan of pleasure.
“I’m so glad you decided to come here on vacation,” he says, kissing me again.
“Me too. We’re so much more than puppy love,” I say, kissing him back.
EPILOGUE
I sit at my studio table in the vintage silver trailer that used to have the Permanently Closed sign on it and look at Bart’s Best Bay Palooza contest medal. He actually beat out Hunter, Toby’s Bloodhound who came in second. The medal, shaped like a dog, hangs over Bart’s bed where he’s now snoozing. And of course, Dave’s beagle Fred won for his incredible Turnaround Fetch trick. It’s almost time for this year’s Pooch Palooza and we’ve been training Bart hard on the agility run.
Life is good. So much can happen in a year. I quit teaching last summer, moved up here to the Poconos, and opened Adorbs Pet Portraits. Dave and I got married at a beautiful, moonlit ceremony on Lake Wallenpaupack in October with the dogs baying, the fall leaves swirling and romance in the air as lush and spicy as the spiked pumpkin punch.
I’m driving over to the house—the one that used to be Dave’s but is now ours—to feed and play with Fred and Wilma’s newest beagle litter. Dave sold Jensen Auto Body to his co-worker, George, and made sure Bobby became manager. The sale has given Dave the time and capital to open Jensen Beagles.
I finish framing the Snowball series I did for Gail. I didn’t have to put a crown on Snowball after all, to capture her regal quality.
I just had her do things that brought out her inner queen: a swim in the lake, which showcased her gleaming eyes and ivory fur in the afternoon sun; snapping Snowball as her ears perked up at a rustling in the underbrush while she sat by Gail. And Snowball standing in a fresh snowfall— warm, creamy fur over cool, bluish-white snow—her head cocked to one side, focusing a quizzical eye on the viewer. Who knew that Gail would end up being the most enthusiastic fan of my pet photography!
Tinsley let me use her fun jingle for residual-free ads. Advertising is cheap enough here to give it some serious radio play and brought in tons of customers—from Scranton, Binghamton, and all over the area. I hum it as I finish framing.
“Do you want a photo of your barking queen?
Or your little puppy prince in a magazine?
Adorbs Pet Portraits is what you need!
Perfection for a great, low price, indeed.”
Sly-dog Tinsley! She’s back down in Nashville, cozying up with Caleb, who she’s writing clever, catchy songs for. In fact, Tinsley will be touring with him soon. I’m thrilled Tins and Caleb have time during their Bearhug tour to play at our Pooch Palooza. It’s fun to Facetime with her, but seeing her face-to-face and giving her a gigantic bear hug (pun intended) will be so much better!
When the photos are framed and packaged in bubble wrap, I wake Bart up and switch off the lights. He trots off in his proud, beagle way and I lock up.
I crate him in my Rogue and peel out. Never, ever since the accident have I turned around to check on him when I’m moving.
My heart patters as I roll down the driveway. I’ve never stopped getting a butterfly fluttering as I’m heading to meet Dave. He’s deliciously huggable.
He emerges from the new dog barn to greet me, along with Fred. Dave looks sexy in his plaid work shirt, his mud boots and jeans with holes in the knee. He’d look sexy in flipping loose overalls! Turns out, I find the country farmer aka dog breeder look hot as hell. He welcomes me with a warm, protective hug and we sway together. Yeah, it’s a swoony kind of love.
“Hey, babe, I missed you this morning.” He kisses me long and sweet. Puffs of bliss float through me like tiny clouds.
“Missed you, too, babe.” Yeah, we’re that corny. “I’m looking forward to a bit of you-know-what this afternoon at the lake cottage.” We’ve turned Dave’s old bungalow into our love-shack, complete with silk sheets, plush pillows and shelves of massage oils.
“Mm, me, too.” He nuzzles my neck and gives it a love nip.
I nestle into his shoulder and lick his earlobe. “Hey, sex monster, how are the pups today?”
“Great! Rambunctious. They’ll be even better when they see you and Bart.”
Bart leads the way, followed by Fred as we enter the barn. Dave unlatches the largest kennel devoted to Wilma and the pups. Eight little hellions, all feeding greedily at Wilma’s engorged teats. When they see Bart, Fred and us, the puppies charge, tripping over paws and their siblings to lick us from head to toe.
Marauding future champions—all silky ears and oversized puppy paws—surround Dave and me. Stubborn little hounds that yip and yap and will someday soon, bay at the moon. Dave kisses me in the jumble.
We wouldn’t have it any other way.
SNEAK PEEK AT PRIVATE INTERNSHIP
CHAPTER ONE
I’m already a jangle of nerves when the ping of an incoming text startles me. One of my heels catches in the crack of the gritty Brooklyn sidewalk and I pitch forward—very unladylike—latching onto a stop sign for dear life. Shaken, I right myself, wipe off my dented cell, and flip it open to a text.
Sienna, he’s a freaking monster!
My friend, Harper. Who’s the monster? Has she gotten into a fight with her boyfriend, Dave Hightower, over who should load the dishwasher? Or in a snitfest over whose turn it is to drive their new fire-engine red BMW? They fight a lot—for sport. Harper is kind, but hot-blooded, and Dave is well bred, but arrogant, generous with laughs but stingy as an addict with one bag of dope left when it comes to money.
Or, is Harper referring to her new-ish boss? The very one about to interview me about a private internship.
No, not her boss. Please.
I reach down, brush off my scuffed stilettos, and then ping her back.
Who’s a monster?
Caz! He fired me!
My stomach feels like it’s splatted into the glass-strewn gutter and is pooling around the shards. I stare ahead at the glitzy Schneitryn Sugar Facto
ry turned art castle where the art king lives and breathes. Where I’m headed. Where I’m dreading to go. Its towers and spires, gothic barred windows glow against the city’s purple-twinkled dusk. Casper Mason lives and plays there. The Casper Mason: mythical he-man from the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, who trekked up north ten years ago to make his fortune. Last year’s feature in ArtNews made him seem like some fairy tale lumberjack in rawhide boots, hauling everything he owned in one bulging pack during his trudge up the coast and right onto the mean streets of Manhattan.
Supposedly, he even slept on a park bench in Central Park those first few nights, braving the thugs and nuts who shambled through its meadows sniffing out folks to rob or even murder. Only stupid or desperate people stayed there all night. Caz was, apparently, desperate. The story, as I vaguely recall, skipped magically after that to when Caz hit it big, way, way out of the park, with his wacko, over-the-top art pieces and installations, mostly about sugar.
Sugar? No shit.
I’ve seen the photos of his installations in magazines. Recently, I went with Harper to see his work at the Museum of Modern Art. His show featured three dead snakes in a translucent vat of pink sugar-water and five-hundred-pound bags of sugar hung at all angles in the gallery for we, the clueless art aficionados, to wonder what the bloody hell Casper Mason is possibly thinking when he conjures up such things.
I ping Harper back.
Why did he fire u?
Not that I really want to know. In fact, I do not want to know. Caz has a terrible reputation for sacking his staff. Harper told me he’s already booted three girls this season. And if polite, beautiful Harper can’t please him, there’s no way in hell that I, Sienna Karr, ornery, slightly rebellious, and definitely flawed potential employee, will last a hot minute.
Because I wandered into the wrong room, she texts back.
Wha? Come again?