hadn’t grown an inch above her five foot three since the seventh grade. To redirect Roy’s focus, she reached across the counter to straighten his wrinkled shirt collar lying awkwardly over his maroon clinic jacket. “If you don’t like to iron, at least take your clothes out of the dryer before they dry all mangled. Better yet, let me do your ironing for you.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Roy playfully swatted away her hand away. “Just remember that I have to answer to your parents if anything happens to you here.”
She thought about her parents, who were considering becoming foster parents since she, too, had “abandoned the nest,” as her parents put it. Her older, adopted brother had struck out on his own four years earlier, finding his career restoring old homes on the East Coast. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Uncle Roy. I was born under a lucky star, remember?”
It was her longtime joke, ever since learning that she had been born one night on the side of the road after the family car had suffered a flat on the way to the hospital. When asked as a child, “Which star?” she would spread her arms wide and declare, “All of them!” The truth was that Roy had been a lifesaver in helping her get a job here, and Rylie intended to quickly make him see that she was fine on her own before he found out the full truth about why she had made the move.
“Well, Ms. Lucky,” he said, nodding toward the front, “your first appointment is arriving—along with her sourpuss courier.”
Noting his grimace, a confused Rylie glanced over her shoulder to see a sleek black BMW sedan pull up to the front door. She couldn’t stop a little sigh as she recognized that once again Ramon Bustillo wasn’t here in Mrs. Prescott’s Cadillac.
“I wonder how Mrs. P talked His Highness into delivering her pooch again.”
“Behave.” Rylie looked from her uncle to the four musketeers, to see if they were listening, then back to the expensive car. She knew why Uncle Roy called Noah Prescott that—Noah wasn’t only the son of Mrs. Audra Prescott, one of the state’s most admired ladies in society, he was also District Attorney Vance Ellis Underwood’s assistant and expected successor—and he acted the part. As a result, her uncle didn’t care for him, calling him a “stuffed shirt,” and, after two meetings with the man, Rylie had to admit Roy had some cause for his opinion. However, Noah was maddeningly sexy, too, with his intense brown eyes, serious five-o’clock shadow that tended to keep her from having a clear view of the slight cleft in his chin, and gorgeous, wavy brown hair with enviable gold highlights. The first time she met him, she’d concluded that he must shave three times a day to keep the elegant image his tailored suits and expensive shoes exuded. He undoubtedly went for a weekly manicure, too. His long-fingered, pianist’s hands had made her want to shove her banged-up, laborer’s hands into her jeans’ back pockets.
“Ramon must have experienced some kind of problem again,” she replied. Ramon Bustillo wasn’t only Mrs. Prescott’s driver; he was the caretaker at Haven Land, the family estate. Last time, Ramon had needed to get Mrs. Prescott to an early doctor’s appointment, so Noah had brought her dog, and it was evident to anyone with eyes that Noah couldn’t wait to be rid of the adorable bichon frise, registered as Baroness Baja Bacardi. It had been equally clear that the little dog couldn’t wait to get into friendlier hands, as well.
“I suspect having an audience won’t improve his mood any, so I’m going to take MG and Humphrey out back. C’mon, Humph,” he called to Doc’s basset hound. “MG, pretty girl,” he added to the large, black retriever-mix dog. “Let’s go out.”
“Thanks, Uncle Roy.” Seeing Noah struggle with closing the car door, she started toward the front door to help, only to stumble. “Oh!”
She knew immediately what had happened—instead of following her uncle’s directive, MG had come to stand beside her as though waiting for permission. Luckily, Rylie had good reflexes and grabbed the edge of the counter before falling face-first to the tile floor.
“Rylie—good Lord! Are you okay?”
Seventy-year-old Warren Atwood, the “Aramis” in the group, rose from his chair. Retired from the army and a former D.A. of Cherokee County himself, his dear wife was in a local nursing home suffering from the last stages of Alzheimer’s. Rylie had learned that he was so devastated by it all that he could barely stand to be there without becoming emotional.
“Not to worry,” she assured him and the others, who also looked concerned. “I should have known she would come to me first. She’s still getting used to Uncle Roy.” Rylie covered her embarrassment by quickly hugging the sweet-natured, long-legged dog. She thought she’d been doing so well; she hadn’t bumped into a wall or tripped over anything in days. “Let’s go, Mommy’s Girl. Go out with Uncle Roy. You know it’s your job to watch over Humphrey.” She walked the black, silky-haired animal to the swinging doors, where her uncle and Doc and Brooke’s basset hound waited.
“I don’t get it,” Roy muttered. “Dogs like me.”
“She likes you.”
“So much that she runs to you at the sound of my voice. She’s going to give me a complex.” After the mock complaint, her uncle gave her a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You aren’t getting all flustered over Golden Boy, are you?”
“You’re sounding more and more like a jealous schoolgirl.” Shaking her head, she started for the front door again.
By the time she had her hand on the handle bar, Noah Prescott had championed the outer door. Barely. She couldn’t help but laugh at the awkward way he was holding the little cutie. Was he afraid that the adorable white bichon frise was going to try to take a bite of his earlobe or that the young dog would ruin his very attractive silvery-gray suit?
“Thanks for the prompt assistance,” Noah muttered when he finally made it inside.
“You’re very welcome, A.D.A. Prescott,” she replied cheerfully, purposely misunderstanding his sarcasm. “I would never have guessed a little eight-pound dog with such an amiable nature would scare a man with the entire police department at his service.”
“I. Am. Not. Scared.” Checking his edgy tone, Noah added stiffly, “I’m simply trying not to get dog hair on my suit. I happen to be due in court within the hour.”
“Well, you’re wearing the best color to hide a strand or two,” Rylie assured him, all smiles and pleasantness. “Hello, Bubbles, you cutie.” She relieved Noah of the tiny bundle, who had been nothing but obliging during her two previous visits. “I hope nothing has happened to Ramon,” she added to Noah. “Your mother’s driver?” she added, after his odd look.
“I know his name. I just thought it unusual that you did.”
Maybe Uncle Roy was right—Noah Prescott could be the snob Roy claimed. Unable to resist, Rylie said with several more degrees of sweet demeanor, “Why wouldn’t I? Because he’s only a driver? I’m only a dog groomer. Who am I to put on airs about the hired help?”
After staring at her as though he would like to put her behind bars, or at least walk out without another word, Noah replied with painstaking civility, “Ramon is at the dealership. The car had a flat before getting out the driveway. Mother didn’t want him driving way down here on the spare, then all the way back to Rusk.”
“That sounds just like her. She’s such a thoughtful woman.” Audra Prescott was also turning into her best customer so far, thanks to her preference for having her dog groomed more often than the average
