Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
“Gram? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says, breathless. “But I need…I need…you to come home, Molly.” She sounds near tears.
“What’s wrong?” My head spins with worry.
“It’s Mr. Darcy. He got away from me on our walk, and I can’t find him.”
Chapter Ten
Kit
* * *
Tears stream down Molly’s face as she scrambles out of the booth at La Fiesta.
“I have to go,” she says, stuffing her notebook into her bag.
“What happened? Is it your grandma?”
“My dog got away while Gram was walking him. He’s energetic but kind of slow because his legs are short and honestly, if a car was about to hit him, I’m not sure he could move out of the way fast enough.”
She’s speed talking and crying, pulling out her wallet and searching through it.
“Molly.” I say her name calmly as I take out my wallet and put some cash on the table. “That’ll cover our bill and my car is right outside. Let’s go.”
When she looks at me and nods, two fresh streams of tears spill onto her cheeks. We both grab out coats and she slings her bag over her shoulder.
The server looks confused as we rush toward the doors of the restaurant.
“Do you need to-go boxes?” he calls.
“No thanks. I left money on the table.” I open the door for Molly and she breaks into a run.
“I don’t even know where I’m going,” she says helplessly, turning to look at me. “Which way to your car?”
I point to the next block and we both run until we’ve gotten to my Range Rover. I start the car, signal and pull into oncoming traffic, a pissed-off driver honking their horn behind us.
“Go fuck yourself, buddy,” I say, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Mr. Darcy isn’t used to the cold. And English bulldogs aren’t made for extreme weather.” Molly is weeping into her hands next to me.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I reach over and rub her upper back. “Someone will find him.”
“And they’ll keep him or sell him,” she says frantically. “English bulldogs are expensive.”
She’s crying harder now, her shoulders shaking. I want to reassure her, but I’m not sure what to say.
“He’s my baby,” she says, looking over at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I got him when he was twelve weeks old.”
“How old is he now?” I ask, hoping to distract her from her worry.
“He’s three.”
My mind runs through all the things we need to do to get her dog back.
“Listen, why don’t you call animal control and let them know he’s missing?” I say. “That way if someone finds him and calls, they’ll know to call you.”
She nods. “Okay, that’s a good idea.”
I reach over and take her hand, squeezing it. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll find him.”
She squeezes my hand back, giving me a grateful smile.
This buttoned-up, guarded woman is so vulnerable right now, so brokenhearted over her missing dog, that I’d do anything to make it better. If she doesn’t have Mr. Darcy back in her arms by tomorrow, I’ll offer a reward for his return.
“His hearing isn’t the best,” she tearfully tells the person on the other end of the line at animal control. “No, he’s never bitten anyone…yes, he’s up to date on his shots.” She shoots me a quick glare, and her tone turns fierce. “I’m sure he was on a leash, yes. He just got away from my grandma. I called to let you know he’s missing and he’s my dog, not to get interrogated about whether I’m a responsible pet owner.”
She rubs her temples as the person on the other end of the line talks, then narrows her eyes.
“I need to look for my dog. I’m hanging up now.”
“At least they know he’s got an owner,” I offer.
“That lady was an asshole.”
I’d rather see her angry than crying, so I listen as she rants while I look for a parking space near ger grandma’s building.
“You can just drop me off here,” she says. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Do you think I’m going to drop you off and leave?” I ask, offended. “I’m parking and helping you look for your dog.”
“You don’t—”
I put a hand up to stop her. “Don’t start that shit about how I don’t have to or it’s not professional. You need help and I’m helping.”
Meeting my eyes, Molly says, “Thank you.”
She races from the car toward her building, and I’m right behind her. An elderly woman meets us at the bottom of the stairs. She has a red stocking cap on her head and a tissue in her hand, wiping at her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “He saw something and dashed right after it. When he pulled on the leash, it slipped through my hand. And I tried to catch up to him, but I slid on the ice.”
“Oh, Gram.” Molly takes her by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”