At this point, I’m not sure what I’m hoping he’ll offer—an invite to the club, or an afternoon playdate for us and the dogs. No, in this precise moment, I want the latter. Maybe I should just forget the whole Kate Jeffries thing. She didn’t make a solid offer, and I don’t have a solid lead. I could start another dating blog, as Beth has been urging me to do in her near daily texts, or get a “real job” like my older sister, Mary, has been not-so-delicately pushing me to do for years.
Of course, anything that would fit Mary’s idea of a “real job” would be like getting extensive dental work without Novocain. No, thanks.
“Not too many jobs around here,” he said, nudging some dirt with his foot. “Or at least there weren’t. Must be especially hard being back in your parents’ house.” He looks up at me again, those eyes so deep and dark they seem to see right through me. The thought carries a shock of attraction and alarm. “Maybe—”
But I’ll never find out what he meant to say, because I see another dog growling and baring its teeth at Ruby, who’s stepped in front of Chaco, bless her.
“Cal!” I blurt, pointing, and just like that, he’s running. When the dog, a white German shepherd, charges at Ruby, mouth wide for a bite, Cal lunges forward and grabs the back of its collar, yanking. My heart lurches with worry for this stranger, this man who’s sincere and brave in a way I wasn’t expecting.
The dog turns to him, and I give a little gasp, and it’s only then I realize I’ve been edging closer. It’s a weird impulse—to walk toward a fight rather than away—but I’ve never known when to stand down, and the thing is…I don’t want him to do this alone.
“Ghost,” someone yells, and a woman with a dark pixie cut and big brown eyes darts forward from the side of the dog park. Between her admonishing tone and Cal’s unmoving stance, the dog—Ghost, apparently—backs down with a whine, and my heart finally calms. The fight’s over before it really started.
“I am so sorry,” the woman says, her voice shaking a little as she approaches.
Cal releases the dog’s collar. “It happens,” he says simply.
But her dog was the aggressor, and we all know it. “He’s not my dog,” she says quickly. “I’m pet-sitting.”
“Lot of that going around,” Cal says, throwing me a glance. Ruby is sitting behind his legs, Chaco behind her, and the protectiveness of his bigger dog puts a ball of emotion in my throat. What the hell is happening to me today?
The woman gives him a strange look, like she’s not used to pet-sitting being discussed as if it’s a communicable disease, then says, “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t see how it started, but if he bit your dog or anything, let me know.”
She produces a card and hands it over to Cal. I catch the words on it—Tina DiVirgilio, the Jill of All Trades—before he pockets it.
“Thanks,” he says, “but I think I stopped it in time.”
“Well, I’m going to take him home and give him a serious talking-to in the car.” Turning to Ghost, she scowls at him. “Bad Ghost. No TV for you.”
Before I can ask if she actually plays TV for the dog and, if so, whether he prefers murder mysteries or the Nature Channel, she takes off with the German shepherd, and I’m mostly alone with Cal again. He stoops to give Ruby an affectionate pet before straightening to look at me.
Before the incident with the dogs, there was a spark of interest in his eyes, along with plenty of warmth and understanding. Now, his expression is closed off and hard.
“How’d you know my name?” he asks.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Didn’t you mention it?” I ask, already knowing it won’t fly.
“No. And last I checked it’s not stitched into my shirt. Who are you?”
“Molly O’Shea,” I say, putting out a hand, “pleased to meet you.”
I half expect him to refuse to shake—that hard look hasn’t budged—but he takes my hand, and I feel a little zip of pleasure. His fingers are a bit callused and rough, but they’re long and artful, and it’s clear he’s a man who works with them. I suspect he knows what to do with those hands, which makes me feel a pang of regret because whatever light flirtation was ping-ponging between us is shriveling like a raisin.
“Cal Reynolds,” he says, “but you knew that.” I didn’t actually, but I do now. He pulls away, giving me an expectant look. “How did you know my name?” he repeats.
Maybe I would’ve let the whole thing go if I hadn’t slipped up and used his name. But that possibility is behind us now. Might as well pursue the story. I could lie about what I’m after, but if I circle in toward him, questioning the people around him, he’s going to find out anyway.
And, a little voice adds, you don’t want to lie to him.
It’s true, but I’d prefer not to question my reasons for that.
“I’m a writer. I read Augusta Glower’s book, and I’d like to talk to you about the Bad Luck Club.”
He takes a step back as if I just announced I’m a serial killer. The horror in his eyes is unstudied, and it’s followed by a flash of hot anger.
I know anger. I’ve been trained to look out for and, if need be, respond to it. Because some guys don’t take it well when you call them on their bullshit. But there’s nothing violent about him, nothing to alarm me beyond the fact that I’ve royally screwed this up.
“What the hell?” he says, his voice dripping with disgust. “Did you make up some bad luck story because you wanted me to invite you to the club? That’s messed up.”
It is. And I feel a throb of guilt before I say, “No, I didn’t make any of that up. It’s all true.”
“Right,” he says, making it clear he doesn’t believe me. “Seems pretty coincidental that you’re here from Seattle, dog-sitting, and you just so happened to bump into me in the dog park and recognize me from, what? Augusta didn’t use any pictures. She knew better. You were sent here to track me down. Is that even your sister’s dog?”
Looking at it from his point of view, it does sound pretty bad.
“I didn’t lie about anything,” I insist. “And I didn’t, like, dognap Chaco or whatever just so I could run into you. I found Augusta’s book at my sister’s place, and I knew something was off with her story. People across the country are changing their lives based on what she wrote in that book. If she lied, they deserve to know the truth. As for how I found you?” I shrug. “Can’t reveal my sources.”
A grunt. “You’re just giving yourself an excuse to poke around in other people’s lives. I’m telling you right now I don’t want anyone poking around in mine.” His eyes get harder, his words a jab I very much feel. “You’ve clearly read Augusta’s book. Seems to me you know all you need to.”
“I don’t know your story,” I say. “She dedicated the book to you, and after it was published, one of the members of the group called the publisher, claiming Augusta didn’t start the group at all. Now, maybe that was an exaggeration, but if she stole all or some of the credit from someone else—from someone like you—she shouldn’t get away with it. Don’t you want to set the record straight?”