across the lawn.
If the wiry, almost arresting dog trainer earned her fee, he thought, he might end up with a dog as appealing as Newman.
Miracles happened—occasionally.
An hour later, exhausted, Simon sprawled on his own living room couch. Jaws scrabbled at his leg, whined.
“Jesus, don’t you ever wind down? I feel like I’ve been to boot camp.” He hefted the dog up and Jaws wiggled and licked and snuggled. “Yeah, yeah. You did okay. We did okay.”
He scratched the pup’s ears.
In minutes, man and dog were sound asleep.
Three
With a day loaded with classes, Fiona needed a jump start to the morning. Over sweetened black coffee, she debated the relative fuel ratios of Froot Loops versus Toaster Strudels.
Maybe a combination of both, she considered, as she’d missed out on that fat burger and mountain of fries the day before due to man and dog.
Sexy man, sweet dog, she mused, but she’d ended up settling for frozen pizza at the end of a long day because she’d been too tired to think about actually cooking.
Since she had another long day ahead of her, what was the harm in an extra boost of sugar?
As she debated, she drank the coffee and watched her dogs play outside. She never got tired of watching them. And wasn’t she lucky she could make a reasonable living in the company of dogs, and do something important?
She thought of a little boy, warm and safe, and a father weeping with relief with his arms around a very good dog. Now that very good dog pranced around the yard with a stick in his mouth, as proud of that find—or nearly—as he’d been with the kid.
As she watched, all three dogs alerted, then raced around to the front of the house.
Somebody had driven over her little bridge.
Damn it. Her day wasn’t supposed to start for nearly an hour. She wanted her solo time, and her Froot Loops/Toaster Strudel combo before she interacted with other humans.
But when she walked to the front door, opened it, her mood took a bounce. She was always ready to interact with Sylvia.
Sylvia hopped out of her snappy hybrid—a compact, energetic woman with rich brown waves bouncing. She wore knee-high boots with skinny little heels under a floaty skirt matched with a gorgeous plummy sweater that had, no doubt, come from her own stock. Huge silver triangles swayed at her ears as she stepped back so her cheerful Boston terrier, Oreo, could jump out after her.
The dogs immediately fell into an orgy of delighted welcome—sniff, lick, roll, run. Sylvia gracefully waded through them and shot Fiona one of her stunning smiles.
“Morning, cutie! We’re an hour early, I know, but I wanted some gossip time. Can you spare it?”
“For you I can.” Fiona crouched as Oreo raced to give her a quick hello before dashing back to his playmates. “Come on back to the kitchen. You can have some tea while I grab breakfast.”
Sylvia’s hello included a long, hard hug—it always did—before, with her arm still looped around Fiona’s waist, she walked into the house.
“The news about you and Peck finding the little boy is all over the island. You did good.”
“Peck was perfect. And the fact Hugh had to pee, twice, didn’t hurt. Still, it’s pretty amazing how much ground a three-year-old in footie Spider-Man pj’s can cover.”
“He must’ve been so scared.”
“More wet, cold and tired, really.” Fiona put the kettle on, gestured to the cupboard where she kept several options of herbal tea, with Sylvia in mind. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you right away to let you know.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvia waved it off as she settled for cinnamon peach. “I was out and about anyway, checking out some pottery—and naturally left my phone in the car. I have to stop doing that.”
She turned, narrowed her eyes as Fiona took a box of Froot Loops out of another cupboard. “You’re not having that processed sugar for breakfast.”
“Fruit, as in Froot Loops.” Smiling hopefully, Fiona shook the box. “There has to be fruit in here.”
“Sit down. I’m fixing you a decent breakfast.”
“Syl, this is fine.”
“It might be, on occasion, if you were ten. Sit,” she repeated, and, at home, opened Fiona’s refrigerator. “Um-hmm, um-hmm. I can work with this. You’ll have a nice egg-white omelet on whole wheat toast.”
“I will?”
“And fill me in on the distraction. An interesting eyeful, isn’t he?”
“Adorable, and with some training he’ll be a wonderful companion.”
Sylvia shot Fiona an arched look as she pulled out a small bowl and a tiny container. “I meant Simon.”
“Maybe I did, too.”
“Ha. He’s tremendously talented, and well mannered, if a little mysterious.”
“Which one are you talking about?”
“Smarty.” Expertly, Sylvia separated the eggs, sealing the yolks in the container before whipping the whites together with a little cheese and herbs. “He has a lovely house on East Sound, is meticulous in his craft, has gorgeous eyes, a strong back, a cute puppy, and he’s single.”
“He sounds perfect for you. Go get him, Syl.”
“I might, if he wasn’t two decades behind me.” Sylvia poured the egg whites into the skillet she had heating and popped bread into the toaster as Fiona fixed the tea. “You go get him.”
“What would I do with him once I got him? Besides that,” she added when Sylvia snorted, “men, like dogs, aren’t just for the fun times. They’re a full-out, long-term commitment.”
“You need the fun times so you can decide if you want the rest. You could try, oh, I don’t know, the wild and crazy concept of a date.”
“I’ve been known to date. I prefer group socialized events, but I occasionally date. And I occasionally indulge in those euphemistic fun times. And before you give another nudge, just let me say: Pot, kettle.”
“I married the love of my life, and had ten wonderful years with him. Sometimes I still feel cheated we didn’t have more time.”
“I know.” Fiona slipped over to rub a hand down Sylvia’s back as they both thought of Fiona’s father. “You made him so happy.”
“We made each other. I can’t help wanting that for you.” She slid the omelet onto the lightly browned toast on a plate. “Eat your breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They sat across from each other at the tiny table, and Fiona took the first bite. “God, this is good.”
“And hardly took more time or effort than pouring colored sugar into a bowl.”
“You’re entirely too hard on the loops of fruit, but this is too good for me to argue.”
“Well, while you’re eating a decent breakfast, I’ll tell you what I know about Simon Doyle.” Sipping, Sylvia leaned back, crossed her legs. “And don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not curious.”
“Okay, I won’t because I am. A little curious.”
“He’s thirty-three, originally from Spokane, though he lived the last several years in Seattle.”
“Spokane and Seattle. Night and day.”
“Pretty much. His father owns and still operates as a contractor in Spokane—with Simon’s older brother. He double-majored in art and architecture at USC, then worked as a cabinetmaker before he began to design and build furniture. He did pretty well for himself in Seattle, won some awards. Had a very hot affair with Nina Abbott—”
“The singer?”
