Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology

by Lisa Mondello

  Hank said good-bye to Colleen and steered into the parking lot of the hardware emporium. It was well lit and packed with cars, which meant it was open—good news—but also that he might have to wait to get the key copied. Tonight, he wouldn’t be free for dinner. But a nice evening meal was easy to sacrifice if it meant he would be passing responsibility for Priscilla along to Abbie Harding.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  He saw her standing on the brick porch of his mother’s house as he coasted up the driveway. He hadn’t left the porch lights on, since he hadn’t expected to be back at the house before tomorrow morning, and he felt bad about her having had to make her way up the snow-crusted front walk and the steps in the dark. She was barely a silhouette, slim despite her parka and clunky boots. He was pretty sure she hadn’t been wearing those boots at the Faulk Street Tavern. No way she could have danced so gracefully if she had been.

  Of course, she hadn’t spent the last hour and a half driving to Lowe’s for a key. She’d had time to go home and change her shoes. And eat something, too, he thought enviously, his stomach rumbling with hunger.

  “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long,” he said as he wiggled the new key into the lock to make sure it worked. He twisted the door knob and then handed the key to her.

  He was groping for the switch to turn on the light in the foyer when Priscilla came barreling down the hall, barking as if she were defending the house from a break-in by terrorists armed with Uzis. Not that she would actually defend the house against an uninvited invader. To be a reliable watch dog would require a degree of discipline Priscilla lacked.

  She was clearly agitated, though, her claws scrabbling against the marble floor tiles, her high-pitched bark roiling the air. Hank fell back a step, but Abbie only squatted down, her big smile dimpling her cheeks, and cooed, “Hello, there, Priscilla! Well, hello!” as if Priscilla were a beloved friend Abbie had been eager to see.

  Priscilla head-butted Abbie’s knee, but Abbie’s knee was almost as big as Priscilla’s head, so Hank doubted the dog could hurt her. Abbie tugged off her gloves and held one hand palm up beneath Priscilla’s chin. Priscilla sniffed it, barked wildly, and head-butted Abbie again.

  “You want to go out, don’t you,” Abbie murmured. She stood and glanced at Hank. “Is the back yard fenced in?”

  “No, but she won’t leave it.” He started down the hall toward the kitchen, assuming Abbie would follow. Priscilla did, of course, managing to slam into his legs in what he was sure was a deliberate attempt to trip him. “I don’t know why she needs to go out.”

  “She has to relieve herself,” Abbie said, her tone implying she thought he was an idiot.

  “I let her out to relieve herself a couple of hours ago.”

  “And she has to relieve herself again,” Abbie said, trailing him and Priscilla through the kitchen into the mudroom and heading straight for the door. She twisted the dead bolt as if she owned the place, swung the door open, and stepped aside so Priscilla could launch herself out into the yard. The dog promptly relieved herself. Abbie gave Hank an I-told-you-so look.

  “Spitz?” she asked

  Hank frowned, unsure of what she was asking. “She’s more of a drooler,” he said.

  Abbie’s smile caused his pulse rate to accelerate. “No, a spitz. It’s a breed.”

  “Oh.” Abbie was right; he was an idiot. “I thought she was a Yorkie. That’s what they told my mother at the shelter where she adopted her.” Not that he knew a Yorkie from a yurt.

  “She looks like she’s got some spitz in her, that cute little fox face.”

  Hank found nothing cute in Priscilla’s face, but he kept his opinion to himself. Abbie stood guard in the doorway, her expression soft and affectionate. She gazed at Priscilla the way Hank would have liked her to gaze at him—with adoration.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have a cute little fox face.

  Abbie seemed infinitely patient, hovering on the threshold while Priscilla romped from one end of the yard to the other, sniffing everything in her path. Hank turned on the patio lights, which spread their amber glow across the snow. Since Abbie was watching the dog and ignoring him, he returned to the kitchen. He noticed spilled water and a few blobs of crusting dog food on the floor in the vicinity of Priscilla’s dishes. After removing his jacket, he grabbed a few paper towels. If he was paying Abbie twenty dollars an hour, maybe she ought to clean up after Priscilla. But he hadn’t paid her anything yet, and he wanted to make a good impression on her. Maybe she’d stop thinking he was an idiot if he cleaned the floor. Maybe she’d look at him the way she was looking at Priscilla.

  Doubtful.

  She remained by the back door far longer than he would have, allowing Priscilla to race maniacally around the yard for a good twenty minutes. By then, he’d not only cleaned the floor but scarfed down a few whole-wheat crackers from a box he’d found in one of the cabinets. He would have preferred something more substantial, but his mother had emptied her refrigerator of perishables before she’d left for her cruise.

  He swiped his hand over his mouth to brush away any stray crumbs as Abbie and Priscilla entered the kitchen, bringing a gust of cold air with them. They walked side by side, Priscilla trotting along on her stubby legs next to Abbie, whose legs were definitely not stubby. “Good dog,” Abbie cooed—words Hank could not imagine ever uttering, at least not in reference to Priscilla. “Good dog! Go get some water.”

  Priscilla dutifully scampered across the kitchen to her water dish and started slurping.

  “She listens to you,” Hank said, hoping he didn’t sound too peevish or envious.

  “I listen to her,” Abbie said, flashing her glorious smile at him. “Why don’t you show me around?”

  For a moment, he was addled enough by her smile to think she wanted a tour of his mother’s house. He quickly realized she wanted only a tour of what she’d need to take care of Priscilla. “Well, there are her water and food dishes,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “If you want to take her for a walk, her leash is on a hook in the mud room.” He crossed to the mud room and pointed out the hook.

  “If I want to take her for a walk? That’s what you’re paying me to do.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t you take her for walks?”

  “I let her run around the yard,” he said a bit defensively.

  “Taking her for walks is important. You want her leash-trained. You also want her to see some different scenery. And she needs a proper workout. Spitzes have energy to burn.”

  “I’ve noticed that. Except I didn’t know she was a spitz.”

  “She’s a mixed breed. I suspect she’s got some Yorkie in her, too. Yorkies can be hyper.” Abbie gazed admiringly at Priscilla as she spoke. “Yorkies are small, and she’s got Yorkie coloring. But a Spitz face. She really is beautiful.”

  Hank wouldn’t go that far. In fact, he wouldn’t go there at all. “Can you get rid of her stupid bow?”

  “If you want me to, sure.” She glided over to Priscilla, hunkered down, and murmured, “Come here sweetie, and let me take that ribbon out of your hair. I’ll let you get back to your water in a minute.”

  Priscilla ignored her and continued slobbering into her water dish. Hank took comfort in that. He would have been really annoyed if Priscilla acted like a perfect angel for Abbie but continued to do her Satan impersonation with him.

  Abbie shifted her attention to the food dish next to the water dish. “What is this you’re feeding her?”

  “Some stuff my mother buys for her.” He pulled a can of the deluxe dog food from a cabinet. “I can leave the cans out for you. They’ve got pop-tops, so you don’t need a can opener.”

  Abbie took the can from him and read the label. Then she shook her head. “Pretty fancy.”

  “Only the best for Priscilla,” Hank said, a hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. “My mother insists.”

  Abbie shot him a look, then set the can on the counter. “I bet your mother make
s tasty food for you, too.”

  “Nope.” He grinned and shrugged. “Cooking was never big on her list of favorite activities. My sister and I learned to forage.”

  Abbie laughed. Hank shouldn’t have been so pleased by that, but he was.

  Priscilla lifted her head from her water bowl, apparently vexed that Hank and Abbie were paying attention to each other and not to her. The fur around her mouth was drenched, dribbling onto the floor as she raced headlong into Abbie’s shins and then darted out of the kitchen. She was permitted into the den, where her bed was located, but the living room and dining room were off limits to her.

  Not that she cared. Not that she could wrap her tiny canine mind around the concept of limits.

  Hank chased after her and spotted her lurking under a pedestal table in the living room. The table held a fragile porcelain lamp. He knew that if he attempted to grab her, she’d knock the table over. She might be small, but she was powerful.

  He dropped to his hands and knees—she’d seemed to like when Abbie got down to her level—and said, “Come on out, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla stared back at him, her mouth shaping a malicious smile.

  “Come out. You’re not allowed in the living room.”

  She barked.

  “Come out,” Abbie murmured, her voice floating down to Hank from above. Priscilla barked a few more times, then emerged from beneath the table and scampered happily over to Abbie, who held a dark cylindrical item in her hand. She lowered it to Priscilla’s face. The dog eagerly chomped down on it, chewed, and swallowed.

  “You bribed her with food,” Hank complained, hauling himself to his feet. “No fair.”

  Abbie smiled. “I use these treats to train dogs.” She pulled a small bag labeled “Trainee-Tasties” from her pocket and showed it to him. “These are bacon-flavored. Dogs love them.”

  Hank would love something bacon-flavored right now, too. Those few crackers he’d devoured had barely put a dent in his hunger.

  Abbie scooped Priscilla into her hand. “You should put some gates across the doorways of rooms she’s not allowed in. But…we’ll work on that. Won’t we, Priscilla?” she addressed the dog, her long fingers caressing the fur behind Priscilla’s ears. “Tell me what else I need to know. Spitzes and Yorkies can be kind of obstreperous—”

  “Kind of?” Hank muttered.

  Another gorgeous smile from Abbie. “So I’d recommend three walks a day. Morning, midday, late afternoon. Then a final romp through the yard before bed to make sure she doesn’t have any accidents overnight.”

  Hank was willing to bet the puddles of pee Priscilla left on the floor were no accident. She was emptying her bladder indoors just to spite him. But he kept that thought to himself. He was distracted by how tranquil Priscilla grew as Abbie continued to cradle her in her left hand and stroke behind her ears with her right. By the time they had returned to the kitchen, Priscilla’s eyes were half-closed, and Abbie plucked the bow from her hair and handed it to Hank.

  “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “Remove her bow?”

  “Get her to calm down.”

  “Dogs love to be rubbed behind the ears. Actually, humans do, too. It’s hard to be agitated when someone is rubbing you behind the ears.”

  “Really?” Hank would be skeptical, except… There was Priscilla, more serene than he’d ever seen her before. “Is she asleep?”

  “Not quite. Where’s her bed?”

  He led the way to the den and pointed to the bed his mother had bought for Priscilla. Doughnut-shaped and the color of raspberry sherbet, it clashed with the room’s décor, which had been designed to please Hank’s father, with maple paneling, a brown leather sofa and matching recliner, an oversized flat-screen TV, and framed antique-looking maps on the walls. It was a manly room, and the round cushion of pink fluff in the corner near one of the built-in bookshelves flanking the fireplace looked absurdly out of place.

  Abbie lowered Priscilla onto the dog bed. Priscilla actually seemed to sigh with contentment as she nestled into the fluff.

  “That’s amazing,” Hank said. Last night, he hadn’t even bothered to point her in the direction of her bed. He’d been too busy mopping the floor and resenting her.

  He turned to Abbie, realizing that she was the amazing one. Even his mother, who doted on Priscilla as if she were one of his sister’s children—the grandchildren his mother claimed to love more than life itself—couldn’t calm Priscilla down that way.

  “You’re agitated,” Abbie guessed.

  “I’m…a little, maybe.”

  “Turn around.”

  Anyone who could work such a miracle with Priscilla had to be obeyed. Hank dutifully turned his back to her.

  She placed her hands on the nape of his neck and rubbed, not quite behind his ears but a little lower, where his skull met his neck. He felt her thumbs dig gently into his flesh, massaging in small circles.

  Damn, but it was relaxing, as if she were smoothing out the edges of his mood. He hadn’t realized how tight his muscles had been until they unclenched, his eyes shutting, his breath deepening. She was a magician. A wizard. A witch casting a spell on him. He wanted her hands on him forever.

  That thought caused one part of him to grow less relaxed. He felt the sudden tension in his groin, a decidedly pleasant tension. Yeah, he wanted her hands on him—but not only on the back of his head.

  He recalled his resistance to Colleen Flaherty earlier that evening. The same rule that kept him from welcoming Colleen’s dinner invitation ought to apply here. He was hiring Abbie Harding. She was going to be working for him. He shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking.

  But he couldn’t just shut down his brain—or any other part of his anatomy. He reminded himself that before he’d known she was going to take care of the dog, he’d been checking her out on the dance floor. He’d been watching, mesmerized, as she’d danced with her friends. And then that song had played, and…

  Damn, but he wanted her.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, his mouth feeling sluggish and slightly disconnected from his mind. “Do you want me to massage your neck, too?”

  He heard her chuckle behind him. Her laughter was almost as much of a turn-on as her fingers digging into the muscles at the base of his skull. “As good as that would feel,” she said, “I wouldn’t risk it. We might both wind up in a stupor, sharing Priscilla’s bed with her.”

  They’d fit much better on another bed—Hank’s bed. Without Priscilla, of course.

  Once again, he cautioned himself to stop thinking of Abbie that way. He was hiring Abbie and paying her. Pursuing anything X-rated, or even R-rated, with her would be way out of line.

  If he continued to let her rub his neck, he’d definitely slide deep into X-rated territory. He stepped away from her—one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do—and turned to face her. For a brief moment, when his gaze met hers, he felt a connection that transcended laughter, flirting, neck massages, even sex. It was just her eyes and his, her body close to his, a bond both visceral and spiritual. He didn’t want her hands on him. He wanted her—hands, breath, body and soul.

  He wanted to take care of business with her. He wanted her to be his business.

  Before he could speak—before he could even figure out what to say—he felt a sharp shove against his shin, knocking him off balance. He didn’t fall, but he almost wished he had, because if he’d fallen, he might well have crushed Priscilla. She ran rings around his legs, barking as if the house was on fire and she needed to alert the fire department, a couple of miles away.

  It figured that Priscilla would spoil everything. It figured that she’d break the mood and prevent him from reaching out to Abbie, gathering her into his arms, planting a soft, seductive kiss on her lips. Or a hard, hungry kiss.

  Yet as Abbie squatted down and snagged Priscilla in mid-circuit, Hank wondered whether maybe, for the first time since Priscilla had barged so noisily into his l
ife, he ought to thank her. She’d prevented him from making a complete ass of himself. She’d prevented him from crossing an ethical line.

  She’d done what she did best—ruin everything. But maybe it was for the best that she had.

  Taking Care of Business: Chapter 4

  The silence of Abbie’s apartment always unnerved her. Her home needed the noises only a dog could make—the tapping of paws racing across the floor, the musical jingle of dog tags clanking together, the joyful bark of a beloved pet greeting its human as she stepped across the threshold.

  But Abbie’s lease specified no pets. She wondered if that clause banned even goldfish—not that she wanted to set up an aquarium. Goldfish didn’t romp across the floor, panting and slobbering in their eagerness to welcome their humans home.

  If she could expand her business to give dog training classes, she could boost her income enough to afford a better apartment. For now, though, this small unit in a downtown brick building would have to do. The building’s ground floor held several shops—a pizza place, which was convenient if sometimes a bit too aromatic; a consignment clothing shop, which was also convenient, given that Abbie didn’t have a lot of spare cash to spend on new clothes; and a chiropractor’s office. Abbie hadn’t learned the neck massage trick from him. She’d learned it from Rufus, the rescue mongrel she’d had while growing up. Whenever Rufus had gotten too rowdy, she would rub him behind the ears and he’d calm down. He’d loved belly rubs, too, but they’d revved him up. Behind the ears was his mellowing-out spot.

  He’d been a great dog, part Labrador retriever, part spaniel, and part who-knew-what. He’d lived a long life and died a peaceful, painless death. She still missed him.

  Someday—soon, she hoped—she’d be able to afford a big enough residence that she could get another rescue dog. A big, floppy, snuffly mutt like Rufus.

  In the meantime, she would occupy herself with other people’s dogs. She’d take care of business.