They rinsed the dogs. Arthur licked Luke’s face from the bottom of his cheek all the way up to his hairline. Luke winced.
Good boy, Arthur.
“Please tell me what other characteristics you think a flower child has,” she said.
“No.”
“C’mon,” she cajoled.
“A flower child walks around barefoot. Burns incense. Wears”—he circled his fingers around his head—“daisies in her hair. Talks about profound mystical crap.”
“Hmm.” Humor laced her tone. “I don’t go around barefoot because I have a sensory issue about grit on the soles of my feet. However, I do wear sandals all the time in warm weather. I never burn incense, but I do burn candles constantly. I’ve been known to put flowers in my hair. The only mystical thing I believe in is God, but I do talk to Him and about Him a lot. And I’ve already admitted how much I adore discussing the profound. Surface conversations become boring after a few minutes.”
“In that case, conversations with me will always become boring after a few minutes.”
She liked his dry sense of humor. “No, they won’t. There’s nothing boring about you.” All that control and sorrow! He wasfascinating. Without even trying, Luke absorbed her attention as if she were sitting in a dark theater and he was lit by stage lights.
They placed the dogs on the mat and toweled them off. Arthur shook his coat vigorously, spraying Luke again. Luke stilled for a moment, then continued to dry the dog so gently that it warmed her heart.
She herded both dogs into the room’s small gated area, then activated the pet hair dryer.
“You’re not going to do anything about the first clue until we talk about it.” He folded a wet towel over his forearm. “Right?”
“I told you I wouldn’t, and so I won’t. You can trust me.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew they weren’t enough. “In time, I’ll show you through my actions that you can trust me.”
He considered her before tipping his head toward the door. “Are we done here?”
“We’re done here.” To his retreating back, she added, “I’ll text you my address.”
He came to a stop halfway through the door. “How about you just write it out for me?”
“Hesitant to give me your cell phone number?”
“Yes.”
“But I have access to it, remember? It’s on your employment documents.”
“Yeah, but flower child–types don’t like to use cell phone numbers without consent.”
He was one hundred percent right. “And here I was, getting all excited about my plan to text you cute dog pictures twice a day.”
“Start doing that and I’ll have to get a new number.” Then he was gone.
Luke was tough, but she was an expert on tough cases. He did not scare her. And no doubt, she did not scare him. Which was to her advantage.
Luke would never guess that he’d just met his match.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Finley settled at her round kitchen table with the exact birthday breakfast her father had made for her so many times. Vegan buttermilk pancakes. Two strawberries sliced to look like rosebuds. Hot tea. Glass of icy lemon water.
For the first many years after she’d founded Furry Tails, she’d worked whenever duty called. She’d spent weekends dashing around Georgia and beyond to rescue abused and abandoned animals. Eventually, she realized that if she wanted to sustain her job over the long haul, she’d need to set boundaries and rely on the help of others a few days a week so that she could unplug from the constant stream of entreaties.
Nowadays, she typically slept late on Saturday mornings. But on this particular morning, the questions drifting through her mind had woken her early. What was inside the envelope? If the hunt led her to something valuable, what could that something be? Why had her father told Luke the hunt might be dangerous? The man who’d spent his life protecting her wouldn’t endanger her. She couldn’t imagine why his last words to Luke had indicated that he’d done just that.
She placed a lavender cloth napkin in her lap and doctored her pancakes with plant-based butter and maple syrup. A few minutes ago, she’d retrieved her father’s clue from the spot where she’d hidden it after her conversation with Luke on Wednesday. At present, it rested on the table next to her place setting.
“Wish you were here, Dad. Cheers.” She raised her mug and imagined him clinking his mug to hers. This breakfast belonged to the two of them. Her dad and her. After a sip of tea, she took a bite of pancake. Then nibbled a strawberry.
