Save The Date Part 5

Cara shrugged. Maybe, if she played nice, he'd relent and release her dog.

She heard a few bars of music, took a couple of tentative steps. But Jack stopped abruptly. "What the h.e.l.l? Jimmy Buffett? Whose idea of a joke is this?" His spine stiffened. He dropped her hand, shook his head. "Sorry."

Without another word, he stalked off, leaving her alone, in the middle of the dance floor.

She stood in disbelief, watching him go.

6.

Jack hurried out of the tent, hoping to avoid the ever-watchful eyes of Torie-and his mother. By the time he made it to his truck, he'd stripped off the tux jacket, unknotted the tie, and ditched the c.u.mmerbund. He unlocked the door, slung the clothes inside, then slid onto the seat and kicked off those gawdawful shiny black lace-up shoes.

Once he was on the Skidaway Road, headed back toward town, he opened the truck windows and cranked up the radio. What a night! He'd only had one beer, but his head was throbbing. Weddings.

s.h.i.t.

All day Ryan had walked around with that goofy-a.s.s grin on his face. And why? He'd just promised to love and obey a girl who would run his b.u.t.t ragged for the rest of his life. So okay, even he had to admit Torie Fanning was one hot chick. But Ryan had dated lots of women just as hot as Torie, hotter even. Why this one?

Jack didn't get it. Never would. But then, his own history with the ladies wasn't exactly stellar.

Exhibit A: Zoey Ackerman. They'd met at a wedding. Jack had been a groomsman, Zoey was the bride's cousin. His face darkened at the memory of it. Nothing good ever happened at weddings. He'd been standing at the bar, waiting for a beer. A tall blonde sidled up, introduced herself. She was new in town, had just taken a job as a Pilates instructor at the Downtown Athletic Club, where Jack was a member at the time.

It had started as a little harmless flirtation. The next thing he knew, she'd moved into the Macon Street cottage with him. The one closet in the house was jammed with her stuff-not that Jack was exactly a snappy dresser, but it would have been good to have a hanger for his one decent pair of khakis and dress shirt.

In the beginning, it had all been good times. Zoey was great to look at, fun to be with, and yeah, the s.e.x wasn't bad either. She termed the Macon Street cottage "adorable."

Two months in, though, everything began to change. Nothing pleased her. She hated his friends, his family, especially hated his job.

He'd come home late at night, covered in sawdust, his hair and face streaked with paint, and she'd make not-so-subtle cracks about manual labor. He had a college degree in business management, didn't he? Why couldn't he work at a nine-to-five desk job, with normal hours and sick days and profit sharing and vacation?

n.o.body else had to work Sat.u.r.days or Sundays, or evenings-why did he?

He'd taken her to a job site-exactly once-to try to show her what it was he did for a living.

It had been one of those huge old Victorian mansions facing Forsyth Park. The place had been chopped up into ten apartments for college students in the 1980s, but the new owners, two retired doctors from Michigan, wanted it restored-to the standards that would qualify it for historic-preservation tax credits. He and Ryan spent six months totally rehabbing the place, gutting it down to the studs, installing all new, up-to-date plumbing, wiring, heat and air systems-then restoring the original horsehair-and-plaster walls, hardwood floors, everything.

Over the years, most of the original moldings and millwork had been destroyed, so Jack had spent hours and hours poring over photographs of houses from the same era, drawing up plans for the new moldings and woodwork, then painstakingly re-creating them. The crown moldings in the dining room, for example, included five different profiles.

Zoey had walked in with him that Sat.u.r.day morning, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. "Rat p.o.o.p!"

She'd retreated to the truck and refused to ever set foot on one of his job sites again.

Maybe that's when he should have seen the handwriting on the wall. Instead, they'd hung on together for nearly a year. He probably wasn't the ideal boyfriend. He worked all the time, and when he wasn't working, he wanted to just chill at home, or maybe out at the beach. Zoey, on the other hand, wanted to go clubbing, or out to dinner, or maybe up to Atlanta to visit friends. He hated Atlanta, and he wasn't crazy about her friends, either. They'd nearly split up the night she brought home the dog.

It was January. He'd been busting his a.s.s between two different job sites, including Ryan's house. He'd come home near midnight, to find Zoey sitting up in bed cuddling with what looked to him like a Muppets version of a dog.

"What's this?" he'd asked, eyeing the dog suspiciously.

"This is Princess Scheherazade of Betancourt," she'd trilled. "She's a purebred goldendoodle. Is she not the most precious thing you've ever seen?"

"Yeah, precious. What's she doing in my bed?"

In retrospect, this might not have been the ideal question to ask of a woman who was already deeply infatuated with a new puppy.

"She's mine. I mean, ours," Zoey said. Her pale blue eyes filled with tears. "I thought you loved dogs."

Christ!

"I love dogs. I think they're great. For people who have the time to spend with them. But I'm working fourteen-hour days and six-day weeks, and you're at the club all day. Who's gonna take care of her while we're at work?"

"I'll take care of her, of course, if you're going to be like that about it. But, I mean, you own the business, right? Why couldn't she go to work with you? She's great company." Zoey buried her face in the dog's fluffy coat. "Aren't you an angel? Aren't you good company?"

The dog lavished Zoey's face with a big sloppy kiss. Then it turned its big black b.u.t.ton eyes toward Jack-and he could swear the d.a.m.n thing grinned at him.

After that, the dog slept every night in the bed with them. Every night, she wedged her hot, hairy body in between him and Zoey. Every morning, he awoke to hot doggy breath in his face.

To be perfectly honest, they were at that point in the relationship where the only thing that was working was the s.e.x. After Shaz? They didn't even have that.

Shaz. He glanced at his watch. She'd been locked up in the cottage all night. He was dead tired, but he'd need to take her out for a run as soon as he got home. It would feel good to get out of this d.a.m.ned monkey suit, lace up his running shoes, and work up an honest sweat.

He unlocked the front door, walked in, and stepped directly in what looked like a fresh piddle puddle.

He was shocked. Zoey had actually managed to housebreak the dog before she pulled her disappearing act. Shaz hadn't had an accident in months. And now this?

He fetched a wet rag from the kitchen and mopped up the mess. He'd sanded and stained the heart-pine floors back in the fall, but he'd never actually gotten around to sealing them. Which was a shame, because now he'd have to sand them down all over again.

"Shaz!" He glanced around the room. Kind of a depressing sight, reflected in the flickering blue light of the big screen. He'd turned on the television before leaving, something to give the dog company. He was pretty sure she liked ESPN and Animal Planet.

No sign of the dog. His stomach clenched. Had she somehow managed to get out? He'd locked all the doors earlier. He was really not in the mood tonight to go hunting for a runaway dog.

"Shaz?" He walked through the combination living-dining room, through the short hallway. He turned on the light in the bedroom. She was stretched out across the bed, with her head nesting on his pillow.

The dog lifted her muzzle and gave him a long, disdainful stare.

"Shaz!" His voice was sharp. "Come!"

Her tail thumped on the bedding, but she didn't budge.

He walked over to the bed and grabbed her by her collar. "Come on girl. Off the bed. You know the rules. No dogs in my bed."

It was a new rule, one he'd inst.i.tuted as soon as Zoey walked out. Shaz had a big, oversized beanbag bed in the corner of the bedroom, and most nights, she was content to sleep there.

"Shaz?" His voice was stern. "Off!"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Did you pee on the floor, Shaz?"

Thump. Thump. Thump. She seemed downright proud of it.

He sighed, changed into a clean T-shirt and shorts, and laced up his running shoes. "C'mon, girl. Let's go work the kinks out."

Shaz blinked. She yawned. But she didn't budge.

Bert glanced over at Cara, who leaned against the window on the pa.s.senger side of the van.

"I'd say the wedding was an unqualified success, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm-hmm," Cara said, her eyes half closed. "Thanks for being my designated driver. I'll take you back out to the Fannings' in the morning for your car."

"Lillian actually hugged me tonight. So did Torie."

"Mmm-hmm."

"I gave out a bunch of our business cards at the wedding. Three of Torie's bridesmaids are engaged."

That got her attention. She sat up straight for a moment. "Really? Which ones?"

"Alison? The little blonde. And the taller blonde? The one they call Chatty? Oh, and Brenna, the supertanned brunette. She actually got engaged tonight, to one of Ryan's fraternity brothers."

"That's great," Cara said. "Anybody mention actual wedding dates?"

"Not to me," Bert said. "But all three of them swore they want you to do their flowers."

"I just hope they call," Cara said. "We don't have a lot lined up for the fall."

"We will," Bert said, ever loyal. "You always get panicky this time of year, and we always have more work than we can handle, come fall."

"You never can tell, though," Cara cautioned him. "Remember how dead it was last October?"

"And then we had weddings booked every weekend in November, through May," Bert said. "Can't you just relax a little? Everything is going to work out."

"I can't afford to relax," Cara said. "I owe the Colonel twenty thousand dollars. And on top of that, I checked my email back at the wedding, while you were out breaking it down on the dance floor. Bernice Bradley emailed me to let me know she wants to renew our lease. I've been going month to month for a while now-and when we renew, our rent is going up to nearly double what we pay now."

"What? That's c.r.a.p! The Bradleys haven't touched the place in years. Your ceiling leaks upstairs, and the plumbing keeps backing up...."

"I know," Cara said, shaking her head. "But they've got me by the short hairs. They know it's a great location. Where else am I going to find that much square footage downtown-and with its own parking s.p.a.ce? And with the apartment upstairs, it's perfect for me."

"I think you should call their bluff," Bert said, steering the van down Skidaway Road. "Call your real-estate agent, ask her to put out some feelers for another location. Let the Bradleys get wind of that. Look at all the improvements you've made to their property. You're probably the best tenant they've ever had. I bet they'd hate to lose you."

"But I'd hate it even more-if I have to move. It's perfect visibility-so close to the biggest downtown churches."

"What about that storefront on Bull? Where the antique shop used to be? Now, that's a great location. Tons of traffic."

"And no parking. I looked at that s.p.a.ce the last time it became vacant. There's a reason why no business stays there longer than a year. If my brides can't find a place to park, they'll drive right on up the road to another florist shop."

"Never," Bert said. "These girls want a Bloom wedding. You've got the look they love, Cara."

"Today," she muttered. "But all that can change in the blink of an eye. These brides are all incredibly fickle. Everybody wants the next cool, hip look. And if I don't stay right on top of my game, I'll be yesterday's news."

She'd dozed off. It was nearly midnight. Bert parked the van in the s.p.a.ce in back of the shop, then reached over and gently shook her shoulder.

"Cara? We're home."

She yawned and looked out the window at the poorly lit lane. "G.o.d. For a minute there, I almost forgot about Poppy. That horrible man still has her."

Bert c.o.c.ked one eyebrow. "You seemed to be having a nice time dancing with that horrible man, earlier this evening. You two were getting pretty close, it looked like to me."

"He's a lunatic," Cara said. "Did you see what he did? Left me standing in the middle of the dance floor! One minute we were dancing-and the next, he just stopped cold. Walked off and left, after mumbling something about Jimmy f.u.c.king Buffet."

"I did see him leave. I figured you'd picked a fight with him," Bert said.

"I never said a word. I thought he might relent and hand Poppy over to me if I played nice. Dumb idea."

"What can you do now? I mean, if he won't give her back?"

"I'll take her back," Cara said, yawning. "He stole her from me, so I'll steal her back from him."

"How exactly do you steal your own dog?" Bert asked.

"Not sure," she admitted. "But I'm going over there to case the joint. Just as soon as I chug a Red Bull."

"Right now? It's midnight, Cara. What if he calls the cops?"

"He won't. And they won't come anyway. Remember, I tried to get them involved earlier, and they flat refused."

"I think you'd better wait till morning. I know that block. It's kind of sketchy at night. And what if his neighbors see you and think you're trying to break in? You'd be the one getting hauled off to the pokey."

"You could go with me. Ride shotgun?"

"Sorry. No can do. I've got plans tonight."

Cara gave him an appraising look. "What kind of plans?"

"I'm meeting somebody for a drink."

"Somebody. As in a guy?"