“Jack! Have you heard a single word I’ve said? Yes! I am telling you Dr. Katz has Shaz. See? You never listen to me, Jack. This is just one more example.…”
He turned his head and was staring directly into the dog’s unblinking eyes.
“Poppy?”
The dog tilted its head and thumped its tail on the scarred wooden floor.
“Christ,” Jack moaned. “You really are Poppy.”
“Have you got a woman there, Jack?” Zoey asked.
As if.
“None of your damned business,” he growled.
“Scheherazade is a very valuable dog, Jack,” Zoey went on. “The breeder said once she’s old enough to breed, her puppies could fetch as much as two thousand dollars. So I don’t appreciate your letting her wander around town without so much as a collar.”
“I didn’t let herdoanything,” Jack said. “I was taking her to that groomer of yours, who she detests, by the way, and she jumped out the window of my truck. I went looking for her and found another goldendoodle wandering down the lane behind West Charlton. I naturally assumed she was Shaz, so I tied a rope around her neck and walked her back home. What I didn’t know, since you couldn’t be bothered to tell me, was that I’d actually dognapped somebody else’s dog. A very angry somebody, who tried to sic the cops on me.”
“Not my problem,” Zoey said airily.
“Actually, it is your problem, since Shaz is your dog,” Jack pointed out.
That shut her up. At least momentarily. Any other woman would have been feeling painfully guilty by now, for abandoning her lover and her seven-month-old puppy, to run off to California the day after hooking up with a Jimmy Buffett impersonator she’d just met at a bar on River Street. A guy who called himself Jamey Buttons, for God’s sake.
But Zoey was not just any other woman.
“You told me you wanted a dog,” Zoey said accusingly.
“And you told me you loved me and wanted to have my children someday,” Jack said. “And just for the record? The dog I wanted was a black lab, not some funny-looking designer dog.”
“I’m not going to let you put a big guilt trip on me, Jack,” Zoey said. “I actually wanted to let you know that Jamey has a gig playing on a cruise ship out of Fort Lauderdale for the next three months, and I’ve signed on to be the ship’s Pilates instructor. I’ll send for Scheherazade when we get back. Probably in August.”
“Yippee,” Jack said bitterly. “Bye, Zoey.”
“Wait, Jack,” she said quickly. “Don’t forget, you’ve got to pick Shaz up by noon, or pay an extra day’s boarding fee. As it is, you already owe them seventy dollars.”
7
Jack tried, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Poppy was no help. She rested her muzzle on the edge of the mattress, watching him with her big, sad puppy eyes. He turned away, facing the wall, but he could feel Poppy’s warm breath on his neck.
Finally, he relented. He flipped back over and scratched under her chin. “There. Okay? Now can we get some sleep around here?”
Maybe he couldn’t sleep because he was dreading the coming morning. And seeing Poppy’s owner again.
The woman was a pistol, for sure. Her name was Cara Kryzik, Ryan told him. She wasn’t bad-looking, if you went for that kind of look. Which he didn’t. He’d always enjoyed blondes: tall, cool, athletic blondes. Like Zoey.
This Cara person, on the other hand, was the opposite of his type. She had shoulder-length, flyaway not-quite-brown, not-quite-blond hair. Big brown eyes that glittered dangerously when she was pissed off, a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and full, pink, lips that reminded him of overblown roses.
She dressed funny, too. That night, at the wedding, she’d worn an old-fashioned-looking pink silk rig that looked more like a nightgown, with its lacy inset bodice. She’d somehow managed to look sexy and demure at the same time, although he totally didn’t get how that look worked with pink cowboy boots.
Every time he’d turned around at the reception, she’d been right there in his face, telling him off, demanding that he return her dog.
His lamebrain brother, Ryan, found the whole scenario highly entertaining. But then, Ryan had notoriously eccentric taste in women. Take Torie, for instance.
“She’s worth the trouble,” Ryan said, when Jack pointed out the differences in their personalities. “I like a woman with fire.” Especially, he’d added, “in bed.”
It had been Ryan who’d coaxed Cara into dancing, despite her protests. His brother was a consummate party animal. He’d danced with almost all the women at the reception, including the seven-year-old flower girl, most of the bridesmaids, and their arthritic aunt Betty.
