Justine Davis - Operation Blind Date

“Now that’s the Cutter I know,” Laney said.

“He only seems to know two speeds,” Teague said, indicating the dog with his cup, “that, and full tilt.”

“Maybe the latter requires the former,” Laney said.

Teague smiled. And not for the first time since they’d sat down here, he felt the urge to just forget what had brought them here, to simply sit here and enjoy a few minutes with an attractive woman, without the undercurrent.

But if it wasn’t for that undercurrent, they wouldn’t be here. It wasn’t like he asked every appealing woman he ran into out for coffee. In fact, he hadn’t asked a woman out for coffee, dinner or anything else in a long time. A very long time.

“Problem with your drink?”

Her quiet question made him realize he’d been frowning. “No.” He seized on his earlier thought, since he wasn’t about to open the door on his pitiful social life. “Just thinking it’s good this is only available now.”

She smiled. “It might not be so appealing on a hot summer day.”

“Did you really use the words ‘hot summer’ while sitting here in the Pacific Northwest?”

She laughed. It was a wonderful sound, and he wondered why she didn’t do it more. Then remembered that the reason was probably why they were sitting here in the first place.

“It does happen,” she said. “A couple of years ago we nearly set a record.”

“A record heat wave here is a cold snap elsewhere,” he said; he was willing to let the chat about the weather continue, if that’s what she needed to ease into the real subject. Or maybe she’d flat-out refuse to talk about it, and he could walk away knowing he’d at least tried. Guilt-free.

“Like where you’re from?” she suggested.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug of assent. “Where I’ve spent time,” he acknowledged, and left it at that. This was not the time to speak of distant lands of heat and burning sun and sand. “But I was born in Seattle, grew up over there.” Time to do a little steering of this conversation. “You?”

“I was born in Phoenix,” she said. “But we moved here when I was two, so I practically feel like a native.”

“Family?”

“They’ve retired back to Arizona,” she said. “Dad’s building dune buggies and mom’s taking skydiving lessons.”

He blinked at that one. She apparently came by the athletic bent honestly. Laney laughed again.

“You slow down, you die. That’s Dad’s motto.”

“He’s got a point,” Teague said.

She seemed relaxed now, smiling. “I miss them, but they’re having so much fun, and they worked so hard for so long, I can’t help but be happy for them.”

“What about you? How’d you end up doing this?” he asked, indicating her shop.

“I wanted to be a vet, even started school. I wanted to help animals, but I just couldn’t deal with seeing so many sick and in pain. I had to find another way to work with them.”

“And you did.”

“It’s not as important, but it’s what I can do.”

“I’ll bet the dogs who get adopted after you spruce them up think it’s pretty important.”

She looked startled, then smiled. “Hayley told you.”

“She mentioned it, yes. She admires you for it.”

“It’s what I can do,” she said again. And he liked the quiet way she said it. If everybody took that approach, we’d all be better off. He watched her for a moment.

Now, he thought. “So what is it you’re upset or worried about?”

It didn’t quite have the effect of a glass of cold water tossed at her, but it was close, and he wished he hadn’t had to do it. He realized with a little shock how much he’d been enjoying simply talking with her. Simply sitting and talking with an attractive woman was a pleasure he’d not had in too long.

“I’m not...”

Her voice trailed away. He felt a twinge of disappointment at the denial after she’d been so honest about the crying.

She tried again. “I’m not sure I should talk about it.”

Well, that was better. At least she wasn’t denying that “it” existed.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not my problem, it’s someone else’s. Maybe. Or maybe it’s not a problem at all. Except in my own overactive imagination. Everything could be fine. Could be wonderful, in fact. But I have this gut feeling there is something really wrong. But everyone else thinks I’m the one who’s wrong. So I just don’t know anymore.”

Teague felt like a guy who’d just had a jigsaw puzzle dumped at his feet, all the pieces scrambled, and he was supposed to make sense of it.

Laney laughed, as if she’d just realized how what she’d said sounded. But it was a different sort of a laugh, not charming and fun, but self-deprecating and on the edge of some deeper, darker emotion. But it cemented Teague’s notion that this was not a woman who cried at the drop of a hat, making the times when she did significant.

“I’m sorry. That didn’t make much sense, did it? I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Or say it all,” Teague said. “Whose problem is it, maybe?”

Her mouth twitched into almost a smile at his use of her own words back at her. But still she hesitated. This time he stayed silent, just looking at her, which was no hardship. She stared down into her cup, and Teague noticed the length and thickness of her eyelashes, the delicate arch of her brow, the length of her neck revealed by the pulled-back hair. Her fingers, wrapped around the cup now as if she needed its warmth even on this relatively mild day, were long and slender, tipped with nails cut short; no fancy manicures for this woman who dealt with washing animals every day.

Crazy, he thought. The most common complaint about women he’d heard from his buddies in the corps was that they never stopped talking. And here he couldn’t get this one to start. Whether that was a reflection on her, or himself, he wasn’t sure.

He was contemplating pressing harder when Cutter intervened. As if he’d sensed the lull in the conversation was a problem, the dog had roused from his nap in the sun. He looked at them both consideringly, then got to his feet and padded quietly over to Laney. He rested his chin on her knee and looked up at her. In a move that seemed and probably was automatic, Laney began to stroke his dark head.

“You are so warm from the sun,” she said to him. “That must feel good.”

The dog stared at her until she gave an odd little shake of her head. Teague knew just how she felt. He’d been on the receiving end of that steady gaze himself, and he knew the odd feeling it gave you.

“You might as well tell me,” he said after a final taste of the flavorful drink. “He’s not going to let go until you do.”

“Is that what you think he’s doing? Trying to compel me?”

“I know it is. I’ve seen him do it too many times. He’s done it to me.”

“Giving him a bit too much credit, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Teague said wryly. “My boss is the biggest skeptic on the planet, save maybe one—well, two—and even he thinks there’s something uncanny about that dog.”

“I can’t deny he’s clever—”

“Oh, it goes way beyond clever. I could tell you stories,” Teague said. “But I promise you, he’s not going away until you talk about what’s bothering you.”

She looked from him to Cutter, then back.

“I know you don’t know me, not enough to trust me. But you can trust him.”

“I know.”

“So talk to me. You need to talk to somebody.” When she still didn’t answer, he leaned back in his chair. “I could call Hayley. Would you talk to her?”

“Oh, don’t do that. I know she’s busy, or she would have come for him herself.”