Which is why I came back to the dog park for a third time.
I didn’t know it was him at first. I just saw a tall drink of water who looked just about perfect for slaking my thirst after a longer than usual man drought. Yes, up until recently I was a dating blogger, but most of my “dates” for Beyond the Sheets were about as romantic as a root canal. I never wrote about my real dates, not unless something went hilariously wrong and it would have been a travesty not to share it. Like the time I met this sexy veterinarian at a bar, and it turned out he was in a weird cult that worshipped energy rays while high on uppers.
Usually I stuck to the work-life separation.
Tall Drink of Water had wavy brown hair with a hint of gold to it, like he spent a lot of time out in the sun, and intense eyes as dark as coffee. He was fit as hell, but in the way of someone who’d earned it through work rather than workouts.
So while his pickup lines could use a little work, I was feeling very inclined to ask him for a different kind of playdate, and then he used his dog’s name.
Ruby.
Which meant Hot Stuff is Karl-slash-Cal, and it was time for me to shift gears and become Work Molly.
The thing is, even though Dustin warned me that Cal’s dishy, this is absolutely not the guy I was envisioning. My working theory was that Augusta and Cal used to be a couple. They wrote the rules for the club together, and she went public with them after an ugly falling-out. But that doesn’t seem to fit anymore. For one, I’ve seen pictures and interviews, and Augusta is fifteen to twenty years older than this guy. I’ve learned you can never predict the capricious nature of the human heart, but even so, they’d make for an odd couple. For another, the rules for the club are wacky, and it’s hard to imagine such a steadfast guy would belong to a club like that, let alone co-create it. Of course, most people can’t be contained in boxes. It’s possible Hot Stuff has surprises up his sleeve.
Besides…there’s that dedication to consider. Even if he didn’t play a role in creating the club, which I haven’t ruled out, he knows something about it.
In short, I’m more intrigued than ever. It’s time to roll out a sob story so I can snag an invite to the club, presuming the original group still exists. It might not, of course, or he might no longer be in it. But if he really played a part in creating it, then he probably has a thing for saving people.
Maisie’s like that, and it’s a habit that doesn’t quit.
The plan isn’t to lie, exactly, because lies get you caught. Thankfully, there’s no real need. Any person edging up on thirty has a few real sob stories in their back pocket. I’m no exception.
Dead parents? Check. Lost job? Check. Inability to maintain serious, adult relationships? Check.
I’m a Bad Luck Club shoo-in.
Still, I find myself hesitating.
“Are you okay?” Cal asks, and I realize I’ve been staring off into space, much like nosy neighbor Jimmy Stewart.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “These fine eyes of mine zone out sometimes. Perils of being too beautiful.”
“Ruby gets it,” he teases, nodding to his dog, who’s being pretty sweet with Chaco, given Ruby’s about three times larger than her.
It hits me that they might actually know each other, since both of them spent some time in Maisie’s shelter, Dog Is Love. It’s on the edge of my tongue to say so, but I’m not ready to give myself up just yet.
This is work, Molly.
Even if I do like the way Cal’s looking at me, his rugged sincerity, and the way his arm felt beneath my fingers.
“Yeah,” I say, finally answering his question, “she and I should form a fine-eyed club of two.” I keep an eye on him, and sure enough, there’s a slight flinch at the word “club.”
“Do you live here in Asheville?” he asks, studying me. There’s a glint of suspicion in his eyes, like I noticed earlier, when I realized he was Ruby’s owner. Somebody’s burned Hot Stuff before. Augusta?
“No, I live in Seattle. I came to town last minute to help my sister out. Like I said, her dog’s been getting ornery, and she didn’t feel comfortable leaving him with a sitter.” I suck in a breath, giving myself a mental push to do what I came to do. Commence sob story. “I lost my job, so I guess I was doing myself a favor too.”
The suspicion is gone in an instant, and he looks contrite for having doubted me, which makes me feel a stab of guilt. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
He doesn’t apologize for cursing, the way some men do, and I like it. It fits with his rough edges, and I can’t help but be sorry that he’s part of the story. I’d like to learn more about what gave him those rough edges, and maybe run my tongue over them.
“Be sorry for the Duke shirt. I was ready to leave the job.” I shrug. “Actually, I’ve been ready for at least a year, but change is hard and COBRA is expensive.”
“It’s good that you could come to family,” he says, his eyes intense. “Family is important. My dad and I are really close.” A corner of his mouth twitches up. “Maybe too close. We run our business together.”
“Oh?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. “And what business is that?”
“We do home renovations, although my dad’s taken more of a back seat lately.”
I was half expecting him to say they were counselors or phone psychics or something, but I keep my surprise to myself. “Must have a lot of business. I’ve noticed most of the old bungalows are still around, but the price tags have gone way up since I was a kid.”
“You grew up in Asheville?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s changed a lot. I moved away after my parents died.”
Bad Luck Club qualifier number two, shoehorned in.
“Shit,” he says again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.” He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “All I can tell you is that I know how hard it is to lose someone close to you. That’s the kind of thing that changes a person to the core. No coming back.”
He means every word.
And, hell, he’s right.
I’m supposed to be working on an in with the club, but I feel a sudden press of warmth behind my eyes, almost as if I’m about to…
Oh God, I can’t cry in front of this stranger in a dog park, when I haven’t cried for years.
But it’s that sincerity again.
He’s a good guy, and I don’t want to use him, even if my goal here is mostly noble.
If Augusta didn’t create the Bad Luck Club, or at least didn’t create it alone, then she shouldn’t get credit for it. The whole concept might sound bogus to me, especially some of the rules, but she’s very obviously made money off of it. No way should that continue if her book is a sham, and I strongly suspect it is.
Besides, the truth is always a worthy cause.
I really do believe that, even if I don’t always follow through.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse, but at least I’ve managed to hold back the waterworks. “Being back is hard. My sister Maisie still lives in our family house, which feels weird, especially without her and her husband around, and our older sister lives a couple of hours away. None of the people I went to school with stuck around. Or at least none of the ones I liked.”