Joan Kilby - Meant To Be Hers

“It should be your decision,” Leanne insisted. “I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Get back to me by Wednesday.”

Carly bit down on her fist to suppress a groan. “Serif,” she blurted.

“No, don’t choose like that. You want to project the right image. I’ll send you some examples to look at.”

“All right. Fine. Goodbye, Leanne.” Carly clicked off her phone before the PA could say anything else.

She flung herself back on the bed, an arm across her eyes. Everything would be better when she felt stronger and more in control. Picturing her own office with a bookshelf and a new box of business cards on her desk made her feel a little better. In future she would be very firm with Leanne and not allow the woman to bully her. The Wallis Group account—if she got it—would represent another quantum leap on her trajectory from high school counselor to human resources officer and now international recruiting consultant with her own accounts. The prestige, the salary package, the boost to her curriculum vitae, all a huge step up. She’d better not blow this opportunity.

Until then, she had guests in the house and she needed to make sure Rufus was okay. Ignoring the lurch of her stomach, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, taking half the covers with her. Disentangling her feet from the bedding, she went to her suitcase for clean clothes but found only dress slacks, work skirts and silk blouses. Clearly she hadn’t been thinking about comfort when she’d packed. Turning to the closet she dug through her old things until she found a pair of leggings and a flannel shirt. Clutching the clothes, she stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.

Having a shower made her feel marginally better. The non-seductive clothing would send a distinct message to Finn. She had a suspicion she’d cried on his shoulder, too. That was acceptable though, right? After all, she’d just lost her aunt.

Finn had loved Irene, too. He would understand that Carly had been grief-stricken and prone to doing and saying things that she couldn’t be held accountable for the next day. When she saw him she would be friendly and polite, like the old buddies they were. Should she apologize for her behavior, or would that give it too much importance? Maybe he’d forgotten or it hadn’t even registered. The guy was seriously hot. Women must come on to him all the time.

What ever . She didn’t have time to obsess over Finn. She had to find Rufus.

All the bedroom doors were shut as she walked down the hall to the staircase. How many people had stayed over? During the university school year Irene rented one or two rooms, mostly to music students but now and then to someone from another faculty. Luckily, the last group of tenants had already moved out for the summer and Carly didn’t have to deal with strangers.

In the kitchen, bottles and empty plates littered the counters and the terra-cotta tiled floor had sticky patches. The smell of stale beer made her stomach rumble queasily.

Ignoring the mess, she went outside, her bare toes curling against the cold concrete of the patio. “Rufus?”

“He’s missing.” Finn came around the side of the house looking disgustingly alert despite his worried frown. This morning he was wearing jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket over a dark green sweater. “I couldn’t find him last night and this morning the side gate was open. Hard to tell how long he’s been gone.”

Carly dragged her hands through her hair, pushing it off her face. “I should never have made him go outside. Irene loved that dog so much. If anything’s happened to him I’ll never forgive myself.”

“It’s not your fault. The latch was loose.”

“I shouldn’t have gone to bed without making sure he was here.”

“It’s my fault, too,” Finn said. “I didn’t search because it was late and dark.”

Carly sank onto a cedar planter at the edge of the patio. “Rufus is sweet but he has no street smarts. What if he’s been hit by a car?”

“We’ll find him.” Finn touched her shoulder then quickly withdrew his hand.

Too quickly. How hard had she come on to him? Was he wary of getting too close now? Perfect. Her first encounter with the crush of her life in twelve years and she’d made a complete idiot of herself.

“Maybe one of Irene’s friends knew he would need a home and took him,” she suggested hopefully.

Finn shook his head. “No one takes a dog and doesn’t mention it.”

“If they were drunk, they might.”

“Let’s go for a walk and look for him. For all we know he’s mooching around somewhere close by.”

“Let me grab something quick to eat first.”

Back inside she checked the fridge but nothing new had appeared overnight. Same old half-empty jars of marmalade and pickles, out-of-date yogurt and Irene’s sourdough starter.

She opened the jar of starter and sniffed the contents. It smelled fruity and yeasty, a bit overripe. “I think it’s gone off.”

Finn took the jar from her. “That’s the way it’s supposed to smell. But you probably need to feed it.”

“Feed it what?” Carly said. “Dead mice?”

“Flour and water,” he replied. “It’s a bit like a pet, one you knead but you don’t have to walk.”

Carly bit back a smile at his lame joke and moved to the leftover platters of food on the kitchen table. The past week had been a blur of funeral arrangements. Mundane activities like grocery shopping had gone by the wayside. Irene, who was renowned for her hospitality, would be spinning in her grave—that is, if she’d been buried instead of cremated.

Carly peeled back the plastic wrap on one of the plates and sniffed the stale sandwiches then chose a couple of the least squashed.

“Sure you want to eat those?” Finn asked. “They’ve been sitting out all night.”

“Salmonella poisoning couldn’t be worse than I feel right now.” She took a bite and offered the other sandwich to Finn.

“Pass.” He let a beat go by, then one dark eyebrow cocked. “I don’t like to start something I can’t finish.”

She choked on chicken and cucumber. “About that.”

“About what?” he asked innocently.

She’d forgotten how he liked teasing her. And how she always fell for it. Forget apologizing. Her minor indiscretion was no big deal. “Funny. But I’m not going to bite.”

He looked at the sandwich in her hand. “Are you making pun of me?”

Carly rolled her eyes. “Let’s go find Rufus.”

She grabbed a leash from the hook in the back porch then slipped on a pair of old tennis shoes and a hoodie and they set off down the block.

It was a typical Sunday morning in the small, Pacific northwest town. Many of the houses in this neighborhood were, like Irene’s, beautifully maintained period homes. Dads mowed manicured lawns and kids rode bikes. Cherry trees burst with pink blossoms and overhead, the sky was a deep clear blue. Off to the west, the bay was calm with white sails scudding past and a ferry in the distance.

Her gaze drifted to the top of the hill. Not five blocks away was a narrow strip of woods and beyond that, the highway. Six lanes of speeding traffic which might not stop in time for a goofy red dog. “He’ll never survive out in the wild on his own.”

“South Hill is hardly the wild,” Finn said. “He’s probably in some little old lady’s kitchen right now, chowing down on pork chops.”

He sounded so certain she was tempted to believe him. Casting him a sidelong glance she was struck by how good he looked. Today his clothes were casual but stylish, his black hair clean and shiny. “You said you’re still a musician. That’s pretty vague. What do you do exactly?”

“I’m a studio musician. I play backup on albums.”