With my chin up, I open the door to the foyer and…we’re not alone.
Kaylie Pauline Simmons stands at the counter, wearing her beige uniform, her sheriff’s hat covering her long curly hair. She’s nodding at something Sawyer just said. Her little tan Chihuahua mix, Baxter, lounges in her arms, like he’s showing off how reformed he is. I trained the spicy boy, who used to guard all the toys in Darling Springs until I worked with him.
“I heard from Linus this place was reopening under new management. Good thing, because I was about to take my boy over to Duck Falls to a daycare there that does nail trims too,” she says, her voice just shy of chiding, like she’s issuing him a warning for speeding.
“I promise to take good care of him,” Sawyer says, all earnest and solemn. I want to kick him in the shins for being so normal after the presumptuous shit he said to me.
She pets Baxter’s head as she doles out instructions. “I packed him a healthy snack—carrots, of course, grown in my garden. He’d like to spend the day in the small dog room. And he can play with toys around other dogs, thanks to—” She stops, turns her wise face my way, seems to register I’m here, then lights up. “Oh! What do you know? This young lady. The finest dog trainer in California—no, the country,” she says, her tone softening when she sees me.Ha, ha, city boy.This small-town girl is beloved. The sheriff looks back at Sawyer, all no-nonsense again. “She taught Baxter how to share.”
Sawyer nods and says evenly, “Great to hear.”
I flash him a smile that loosely translates todon’t mess with me because I will haunt you forever as the world’s meanest ghost.
“And Baxter learned how to be such a good boy, didn’t he?” I say, striding over and stroking the pup’s soft little chin. “Proof thatdogscan be trained,” I say pointedly to Sawyer. Then I leave, letting the doorthunkshut behind me as I stalk to my car.
I grab the door handle, snag the foldable canvas box from the floor, then slam the door shut.
But…I slammed it so hard, the car’s practically rattling. Is the handle looser than before?
Oh god, I hope not. Worry wiggles through me as I test it. Itislooser. What if I have to start getting into my car like an action heroine, jumping in through the open window? No way can I pull that off.
I pet the car in apology. “Sorry, Roxie,” I say to the trusty old dame. “I’ll do better next time.”
I can’t take my frustration out on my car. And really, why doesSawyer’s opinion even matter so much? He’s not right. I didn’t do any of the things he said I did. But then again, I didn’t order the balloons that exploded in the town square, and my former boss blamed me for those.
Which reminds me…Sawyer knows all that. I opened up to Sir Full-of-Himself that night in San Francisco. I shared my vulnerable underbelly in our “whose day sucked more” contest.
Ugh.
I wish I had a time machine. I don’t even want to go back into Dog Tails right now. I’m contemplating finding another workspace somewhere in this town or buying a fantastic new bra that’ll show that jerk what he’s missing when a voice calls out, “Hey, troublemaker.”
It’s Ripley.
Relief crashes into me. Just what I need. A friendly face. She can calm me down. Turning around, I spot my friend cruising down the street on her purple bike, the basket stuffed with wrapped bouquets of lavender. She must be doing her morning deliveries.
“Look!” I raise my middle finger.
“Whoa,” Ripley says, braking at the curb next to me, then hopping the bike up onto the sidewalk. “What did I do?”
“I’m not giving you the finger. I’m showing you my botched manicure, and it’s all Sawyer’s fault,” I say as fumes billow off me. And…I guess I’m still not calmed down at all. I’m worked the fuck up.
Ripley’s brow knits, a crease visible even under her helmet—the one her boyfriend, Banks, bought for her. “Sawyer?”
“Yes, Sawyer,” I say like it’s obvious, as I brandish the evidenceof his insult. “I’m like Iago inAladdin. I’m so ticked off I’m molting. I mean, just look at my nail.”
Ripley takes a breath, nods, then says, “Let’s start at the beginning. Why is your nail broken, and what does it have to do with someone named Sawyer?”
“I sent you his license photo!”
She purses her lips, then after a beat, Ripley says, “His name is Sawyer? That guy you met in San Francisco?”
“Yes! Hello. I sent his license to you and Bridge. Did you even look at it?”
“Hold on. You sent it to us so we would know who your killer was if you never came back. Dramatic much?”
I huff out a breath, but don’t concede. “Well, that’s the point of sending a pic. For future retribution if things go south. And they went south today!”
“But it’s a month later,” she says calmly. “Also, because no self-respecting Darling Springs native goes googling a guy till after the first date, I didn’t even look at his picture. It was there for safekeeping, but first thing in the morning it was gone, poof, you deleted it from the thread becauseyou—as evidenced by the parrot molting in front of me—are alive and well. And not in need of true retribution. So I ask again, what’s going on?”
