Page 22 of Always Almost You

“There’s a pet relief station at the back of the property by the parking lot,” he replied. “You can’t miss it.”

She started toward the front entrance. “Which way do I turn when I get out the door?”

The clerk’s gaze dropped briefly to her thin jacket and the bright red, cartoon-dog Christmas pajamas visible beneath it. “It’ll be faster if you go out the rear door,” he said, pointing down the opposite hallway. “Past the self-service pantry and the fitness room.”

“Can I get back in that way?”

“If you have your room key, you can swipe yourself in.”

“Thank you.” She and Pumpkin reversed course and hurried down the deserted corridor, past the softly lit pantry shelves and darkened treadmill screens, then pushed through the rear door into the bitter night.

The cold hit her like a slap. She was thankful the clerk had suggested the shorter route. The air burned in her nose. The pet relief station was clearly marked near the edge of the parking lot. Pumpkin quickly did her business, the snow crunching beneath her tiny paws.

They were headed back toward the hotel when Pumpkin suddenly stopped. Her body stiffened and her head angled toward the tree line beyond the lot.

“Come on, girl,” Lauren urged, teeth chattering. “It’s freezing out here.”

Pumpkin didn’t move. Her posture was rigid, ears pricked, and entire body alert.

Lauren tugged at the leash, to no avail. She tugged harder.

Pumpkin suddenly lunged forward. The leash ripped from Lauren’s hand. The little dog bolted across the icy pavement.

“Pumpkin!” Lauren swung her foot forward, trying to step on the trailing leash. She missed. Her sneaker came down on slick ice hidden beneath a dusting of snow and her feet flew out from under her. She hit the pavement hard, a strangled cry tearing from her throat.

“Pumpkin! Pumpkin!” Her voice rose in pitch, sharp, urgent, and edged with fear, as the little red blur raced toward the dark tree line.

Mike stared at his computer screen.

If he’d been unproductive before his trip to the gift shop, meeting Lauren and her dog had only worsened his distraction. Her warmth and engaging smile had captivated him. Imagining her in those absurd matching pajamas filled his thoughts. Maybe his mother had been right. He’d meet someone when he least expected it, just living his life.

A sharp cry split the night. Mike froze.

It came from the parking lot beyond his first-floor patio. It was a woman’s voice, high and frantic. Someone was in distress.

He shot to his feet and crossed the room in three strides. Pulling back the curtain, he scanned the dimly lit lot. A figure to the far right struggled to stand on the icy pavement. Red flannel pajama pants protruded beneath a thin jacket. His breath caught. It was Lauren.

He watched as she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Pumpkin!” she screamed. “Pumpkin!” She staggered forward across the snow-dusted asphalt, slipping as she ran.

Mike didn’t think. He shoved his feet into his shoes, threw open the sliding glass door, and vaulted the low patio fence in one fluid motion. The freezing air stung his face as he sprinted toward her. “Lauren!” he called.

She spun toward him, pushing windblown hair from her face. Panic hollowed her eyes. “She’s gone,” she choked. “Pumpkin pulled the leash out of my hand and took off. She’s never run away before. Not ever.” Her voice cracked. “Tonight, of all nights. In this weather. In a place she doesn’t know.”

“She headed toward the tree line?” Mike asked, already moving.

Lauren nodded and ran beside him. They reached the gravel strip separating the lot from the woods. The trees loomed dark and impenetrable.

“There must be something in there,” Mike said, scanning the shadows.

“PUMPKIN!” Lauren called again—her voice breaking.

For a moment, there was only wind. Then a high-pitched yip broke the silence.

A sharp bark answered from within the trees.

Lauren gasped. “Pumpkin!”

Another bark responded, closer this time.