Page 123 of How To Plot a Payback

His hands touch my hips as if to push me away, but I anchor myself to him. He gives a weak attempt at pushing himself back, then gives in.

He looks down at me, his scratchy beard tickling my forehead. His eyes are bright, humorous, as though I’m a ferret who has settled on his shoulder. Honey flecks within his blue-green eyes dance. “Well, I’m sorry this has been so challenging for him. But I assume he’s fielded plenty of offers from other dogs.”

I shake my head. “A few. No one sticks.”

His brow rises. “That so?”

I grin. “He knows what he wants.”

The world around us goes silent for a long moment, nothing but the two of us taking in each other.

And then he places his hands around my wrists, and with resolve this time, he unlocks my arms from around his waist and step out of our bubble.

“I have something for Bernie, actually.” He turns and unzips something from the bag over his shoulder.

Bernie is in full jump-on-jump-off mode with Miles forty yards away, the very picture of how I feel.

“Oh, well, he looks awfully occupied—” I begin.

“Bernie!” Finn calls, then gives a short but effective whistle. Bernie drops Miles’s ear and begins pounding the ground as he races over.

“Unbelievable,” I murmur. “You’ve been gone a year and he likes a stranger more than his owner.”

“So you’re now in the acceptance stage I see.”

I shrug.

Bernie collides with Finn’s legs. “I see we still have trouble stopping,” Finn says, then begins wrapping a bandanna around Bernie’s neck. It’s blue gingham—a surprising choice, to be honest.

Then he stands back, assessing, as if this is exactly what he expected. Not pleased. Not displeased. And there he goes, taking a photo. Then he quickly steps a few feet away and calls to Bernie with a low and subtle, “Bernie. Come.” He actually videos the dog making a beeline for him. Finn shakes his head. He tries again, saying this time, “Slow, slooow,” to no avail. The dog runs like a racehorse and knocks into his legs each time.

He taps something on his phone, then slips it back in his pocket before turning to me.

I’m standing with my head cocked, having watched this moment unfold.

“What was that?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Can’t a man give a nice gift to a friend’s dog and capture the moment?”

The ding in his pocket betrays him.

His eyes lift, but he says nothing.

“Blue gingham?” I say.

“Maybe I’m a blue-gingham kind of guy,” he says. “Maybe I saw it in a shop window and thought to myself, Now, this is exactly what Bernie needs. He’ll match the blue-gingham suit I plan on wearing tomorrow perfectly.”

“Matching you?” I say, reaching down to adjust the bandanna on the dog’s neck. “Can you imagine wearing something like this?”

My fingers pause on Bernie’s neck.

A very curious feeling is rippling through my stomach, and I straighten. “Who were you texting?”

Finn is sitting on the bench now, leaning down, rapidly pulling items out of his bag. There are folders in various bold colors. All are labeled.

“Come sit, Lavender. This is going to take a while.”

He pats the space beside the growing stack, and I sit, bewildered.