Zzzzzt.
A dark brown roach rocketed across her field of vision. What was worse than hallucinating? Not hallucinating a flying bug on steroids. Time to turn tail and flee. Except her beloved Miu Mius weren’t made for running. Strutting? Yep. Kicking ass and taking names. You better believe it. But not a fifty-meter dash across the plaza’s herringbone brick path.
It bombed her like a two-inch kamikaze, passing dangerously close to her earlobe, rustling her hair. Her heart raced, and not just from the unexpected exertion. Breathing was impossible.
No. Nuh-uh. Nope.
She swiveled her head up and down the quiet cross street, seeking safe harbor. Pointless. Scary Bug wasn’t going to honor any “Ollie Ollie in come free” code and go cavorting off to the nearest dung heap. Was that truck over there unlocked?
Zzzzzt.
Holy Joe. Cold dread seeped into her bones, freezing her marrow. Her skin tightened. Scary Bug was on her body. Her actual person. First the dogs and now this?Hello, God, it’s me, Pepper. Kill me and make it quick.
Thick antennae tickled her neck and the ice melted into hot terror. Her heel caught a concrete crack, holding her foot fast even as the rest of her body kept moving. The world tilted. Three Golden Retrievers, trailing leashes, tongues flapping in the breeze, barreled around the hedge.
“Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, I said stay, dammit! Faulkner, come on, man, not you, too.”
She turned toward the shout, arms flailing like a Gumby blowup from in front of a car dealership as the leader took to the air, paws landing square on her chest, sending her flat-backed in the gutter.
She curled into a ball, bracing for the moment when teeth bit down. Instead, no crevice remained unsniffed. The torturous waiting grew in intensity until someone—presumably the owner of these hellhounds—ordered them to back off. The commanding drawl was familiar.
The exasperated tone from behind the hedgerow.
The buzzing intensified. No time to put a face to the voice. She ripped her hand through her hair, and Scary Bug struck the concrete, bouncing twice before coming to a stunned stop. She scrambled to a half-sit. It would give her nothing but grim pleasure to drive a stiletto straight through its mother-loving exoskeleton. She raised her foot, took careful aim, and—
“Look out!”
She froze mid-stab, heel clattering off. Scary Bug took to the air with a final mockingZzzzzt!
“Oh no, it escaped.”
“Word of advice”—now the deep voice sounded less wound up and more bemused—“step on a palmetto and you’ll be sorry. They stink something fierce.”
She stared up. “A pal-mett-oh…” The question fizzled on her lips, doused by deep-set eyes framed by a pair of Clark Kent–style glasses. Dreamboat eyes. A shade reserved for tropical ocean photos touting Caribbean vacations, a deep marine blue that invited a person to sit back and float away.
“I don’t know what wild hair got into these guys,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen them act that way.”
She floated.
And panted. Wait, no, that wasn’t her. A wet nose snuffled against her ear and she was back standing barefoot in a gravel road puddle as the neighbor’s guard dog barreled toward her, trailing its broken chain.
She yelped, panic twisting her spine, leaving her cowering.
“That’s enough. I said back off, Faulkner.” He scooped the dog leashes and tugged them close to his side, tousling his messy shock of sandy brown hair. “Are you okay?”
“I—I—I…” She couldn’t breathe. Or think. But she wasn’t a child. And she hadn’t been bitten.
“Jesus. All right. Listen. Breathe. That’s it, take another one. Good. And another.”
If her fear was a storm, his voice was a life raft. She anchored her gaze on his face. Safer than the dogs at his side. Those fine lines around his striking eyes suggested he was thirtysomething, with a mouth a shade too wide for his angular jaw. But the lack of symmetry didn’t detract. If anything, the imperfection had a curious physiological effect, creating a delay in her brain’s language-processing center.
“…no idea what bee crawled up their butts,” he was saying. “Let me give you a hand.” He took hers with his free one and the rough calluses at the base of his fingers caused friction on her skin. It was a big hand, broad and tanned, with freckles smattering the knuckles. The wind picked up, carrying a hint of soap, a little spicy, a little woodsy, and a lot manly. She leaned in, as somehow the smell could wrap her in some sort of invisible shield, keep her safe and protected.
Except he’d turned his focus over her shoulder. She followed his ferocious gaze to an old man in a seersucker suit currently marching across the Main Street crosswalk, a Scrabble game tucked under one arm, and under the other, Fluffy, her lap dog nemesis from earlier in the morning.
“Sorry if I interrupted something.” She shuffled a few feet back from his closest animal, slipping her shoe back on like the world’s most awkward Cinderella. “I accidently overheard part of your conversation and—”
He snorted. “Way I see it, conversations are an exchange of ideas, not insults.”
Before she could make a hasty retreat, the largest dog lunged. No time to scream before a slick heat swiped her wrist. It was official, on this worst of days she was going to toss her cookies in front of a—if not traditionally handsome, incredibly boyishly cute—man.
His irises darkened to a concentrated indigo, and for a moment she could swear he saw her, really saw her. A person who’d had it up to there, but life went right on pouring. She wanted to linger, bask in the unapologetic stare, let the rest of the world blur into oblivion, as indistinct as an expressionist painting.
Except fraction by fraction his brows pulled closer together. His mouth twitched.
A crazy impulse set in to cry out,Stop! Don’t say anything! Don’t ruin it.Whateveritwas.
She wanted to clutchitto her chest, kick and scream, but the moment was gone.
“You’re not a fan of dogs, are you?”
