"I'm not going to blubber anymore." But she had to bite her lip when it quivered.
"I am," he promised and kept nudging until she was out the door. He set the box down on one of the iron tables on the pretty covered porch, then flung his arms around her. "I can't stand it! Nothing's going to be the same without you here. Who will I gossip with, who'll soothe my broken heart when some bastard breaks it? You notice this is all about me."
He made her laugh. "You'll still be my best bud, right?"
"Sure I will. You're not going to do something crazy, like move to the city?" He eased back to study her face.
"Or fall in with bad companions and work in a strip mall gift shop?"
A lead weight landed— ka-boom—in her stomach. Those were the only two reasonable choices she had if she was going to make a living. But because he looked as if he might cry, she waved them away to bolster him, "Perish the thought. I don't know what I'm going to do, exactly. But I've got this thing—" She thought of her odd evening, and the key. "I'll tell you about it later. I've got something to keep me occupied for a while, then… I don't know, Tod. Everything's out of kilter."
Maybe she was going to blubber a little after all. "Nothing's the way it's supposed to be, so I can't see how it will be. Getting fired was not in the Malory Price Life Plan."
"It's just a blip," he assured her. "James is in some sort of sexual haze. He could still come to his senses. You could sleep with him," he added, inspired. "I could sleep with him." "I have one thing to say to both of those suggestions. Ick."
"Profound, and true. How about if I come by tonight, bring you Chinese and a cheap bottle of wine?"
"You're a pal."
"We'll plot Putrid Pamela's demise and plan your future. Want me to walk you home, sweetie pie?"
"Thanks, but I'll be fine. Give me time to clear my head. Say good-bye to… everybody. I just can't face it now."
"Don't you worry."
She tried not to worry as she walked home. She tried to ignore the panic that dogged her with every step she took away from routine and closer to that wide, wide can-yon.
She was young, educated, hardworking. She had money in the bank. Her whole life was ahead of her, like blank canvas. All she had to do was choose her paints and get on with it.
But right now, she needed to think of something else. Anything else. She had a month to decide. And an intriguing task to perform in the meantime. It wasn't every day you were asked to find a mysterious key and play a part in saving souls.
She would play along with that until she figured out the rest of her life. She'd given her word, after all, so she'd best get started on keeping it. Somehow. Right after she went home and buried her sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry's.
As she came to the corner, she looked back, mistily, miserably, toward The Gallery. Who was she kidding? That had been home.
On a long sigh, she took a step. And landed hard on her butt.
Whatever had collided with her sent her box of possessions flying, then fell on top of her. She heard a grunt, and what sounded like a yip. With the breath knocked out of her, and what felt like a minor mountain pressing on her chest, she stared up into a hairy black face.
Even as she fought for the breath to scream, an enormous tongue rolled out and slurped her face.
"Moe! Stop, heel, get the hell off! Jeez. Jesus, I'm sorry."
Malory heard the voice, the light panic in it, as she gagged and turned her head to try to avoid the tongue. Abruptly, the huge black mass pinning her down grew arms. Then a second head. This one was human, a great deal more attractive than the first, despite the sunglasses that slid down a sharp, straight nose and the grim set to the mouth.
"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
He shoved the massive weight away, then squeezed his body between them, like a defensive wall. "Can you sit up?"
The question was moot, as he was already pulling her from her ungainly sprawl to a sitting position. The dog tried to nose in but was elbowed back. "You lie down, you big sloppy idiot. Not you," he added with a quick, charming grin as he brushed Malory's hair back from her face. "I'm sorry. He's harmless, just clumsy and stupid."
"What… what is it?"
"Moe's a dog, or that's the rumor. We think he's a cross between a cocker spaniel and a woolly mammoth. I'm really sorry. My fault. I wasn't paying enough attention, and he got away from me."
She slid her gaze to the right, where the dog, if it was a dog, was hunkered down, thumping a tail as thick as her arm and looking as innocent as anything that homely could manage.
"You didn't hit your head, did you?"
"I don't think so." She found Moe's owner staring at her with a quiet intensity that made heat rush over her skin. "What?"
She was as pretty as a bakery-shop pastry. All that tumbled blond hair, the top-cream skin, the rosy, bottom-heavy mouth that was in a sexy little sulk. Her eyes were big, blue, and beautiful, despite the temper flames shooting out of them.
He nearly licked his lips when she scowled at him and lifted her hand to shove it through that terrific tangle of hair. "What are you staring at?"
"Just making sure you don't have little X's in your eyes. You went down pretty hard. Great eyes, by the way. I'm Flynn."
"And I'm tired of sitting on the sidewalk. Do you mind?"
"Oh. Yeah." He stood, took both her hands in both of his, and pulled her to her feet.
He was taller than she'd realized, and she automatically stepped back so she didn't have to tip her face up to keep an eye on him. The sun was streaming over his hair—a lot of thick, wavy brown hair with hints of chestnut. His hands were still clasping hers, firmly enough that she felt the ridge of callus on them.
"You sure you're all right? Steady? You went down pretty hard."
"I'm aware of that." Painfully aware in the portion of her anatomy that had hit the sidewalk first. She crouched and began gathering what had spilled out of the box.
"I'll get this stuff." He crouched beside her, then stabbed a finger at the dog who was trying to inch his way toward them with the same stealth as an elephant tiptoeing across the African plain. "Stay, or there's no treat for you."
"Just get your dog. I don't need any help here." She snatched up her emergency cosmetic bag, tossed it in the box. And when she saw that she'd chipped a nail, she wanted to curl into a ball of self-pity and wail. Instead, she selected the temper button.
"You have no business being out on a public street with a dog of that size if you can't control him. He's just a dog, he doesn't know any better, but you're supposed to."
"You're right. You're absolutely right. Um… this must be yours."
He held out a strapless black bra.
Mortified, Malory grabbed it out of his hand, stuffed it in the box. "Go away now. Go very, very far away."
"Listen, why don't you let me carry that—"
"Carry your silly dog," she snapped and, hefting the box, strode away with as much dignity as she could muster.
Flynn watched her go as Moe lumbered over to press his considerable weight against his master's side. Absently. Flynn patted the massive head and enjoyed the indignant sway of feminine hips in a short skirt. He doubted that run in her stocking had been there before her encounter with Moe, but from his perspective it did nothing to detract from a pair of great legs.
"Pretty," he said aloud as she slammed into a building halfway down the block. "And pretty steamed." He glanced down at the hopefully grinning Moe. "Nice job, jerk-face."
After a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a medicinal bowl of cookie dough ice cream, Malory headed for the library. She hadn't made any firm arrangements with her—she supposed they were her partners—the night before. As she was the first, she would have to be in charge.