Chapter Two

Unfortunately, not even Jane Austen could figure out George's map.

By the time I finally admitted to myself that I was lost, and had been lost for quite some time, it was past lunch and I was starting to think that moving to Indianapolis was not quite the grand adventure I'd been expecting. I'd been driving around the circle downtown (on my third circuit I found out it was named Monument Circle, due no doubt to the statue in the middle that kept me from seeing where I was going) for almost half an hour before the car made a terrible sound and I pulled over, resting my head on the steering wheel. The last thing I needed was for my car to break down in the middle of a giant circular road. Who puts a huge roundabout right in the center of a city and expects people to figure out where they are, anyway? Everything starts to look the same after passing it three or four times. It made me dizzy just thinking about it.

Before too long there was a sharp rap on the window. My head slipped from the steering wheel and hit the horn, which started blaring. "Ma'am, you can't park here." A police officer who seemed too young to be telling anyone what to do frowned sternly and pointed to the sign posted above the car. "I'm afraid you'll have to move."

I lifted my head and rolled down the window, intending to tell him that I wasn't technically parked, since the car was still running, when he leaned closer and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for being so brusque, ma'am," he said in a confiding tone. "My superior officer was watching, and I wanted to make sure he knew I meant business." He cleared his throat again. "Are you lost? You don't have Indianapolis license plates, and you look a little frazzled."

Smiling weakly, I handed him George's map. "I was supposed to be at George and Bea's an hour and a half ago," I told him, trying to ignore the headache that had been steadily building since crossing the city line. "It seems my friend wasn't meant to be a cartographer."

He squinted at the series of squiggles and lines that were supposed to indicate roads and frowned thoughtfully. "You wouldn't be referring to George and Bea Butterworth, would you?"

"I am." I was really hoping the Butterworths hadn't been in any legal trouble. Sure, they were my parents' best friends and we'd seen them pretty regularly over the years, but why else would they be on a first-name basis with a police officer?

"Now that's some coincidence. I live down the street from them." He turned the map over and scribbled something. "Follow these directions and you'll be there in twenty minutes, tops. I'd tell you to stop by my house and meet my wife but it sounds like you're running late."

I could have hugged him right then and there. "Thanks so much, Officer . . . "

He immediately stuck his hand through the window to shake mine. "Fredericks. I know your name is Katie Embury," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"And how did you figure that out?"

"I noticed it was written on the other side of your paper." He seemed very pleased with his sleuth work. Straightening, he cleared his throat for the third time (by now I was counting) and said in a more normal tone, "Once you get settled in, walk on down for a chat. We're the white house at the far end of the street. Since the baby was born we don't get a whole lot of outside stimulation."

"I really appreciate the help," I said sincerely, vowing to make the Fredericks cookies as soon as George and Bea had left the country and were out of the way. "I'll stop by soon."

He waved and walked off, narrowly missing the street sign he'd pointed out to me only a few minutes before. He quickly sidestepped it and glanced back at me, giving me an embarrassed sort of smile. I looked down at his notes. At the bottom he'd written in large, underlined letters, The house is yellow. You can't miss it.

The car started making the same noises it had on the circle a mile or so from the Butterworth's house, and I clenched the steering wheel as tightly as I could in a vain attempt to make it cooperate. It held on, but only barely, rolling to a gasping, smoky halt in front of their mailbox.

George and Bea were outside waiting for me. "We've been so worried about you!" Bea cried, rushing forward and throwing her arms around me when I climbed out of the car. "Where in the world have you been?"

I didn't really want to tell George that his maps left a little to be desired, so I just shrugged and extricated myself from her grasp. It felt good to be out of the car -- even though I was beginning to think I might never get back in. "I explored downtown," I said vaguely, looking around. They'd purchased this house six months or so ago, and I hadn't seen it yet. Now I knew why Officer Fredericks had written that addendum at the bottom of his note.

The house was indeed yellow – as yellow as George's car, Bea's hair, and both of their shirts. It screamed that someone very fond of bananas – or butter – had painted first it and then everything surrounding it. Yellow flowers lined the driveway; yellow bushes nestled under the front windows; and yellow curtains fluttered in the breeze. They even had a yellow mailbox to match.

"This is very . . . " Not sure what to say and still remain both truthful and polite, I let my words trail off.

"Gorgeous?" Bea looked fondly at her home, pride oozing from her pores. "We had most of the exterior redecorated over the past few months. It's just too bad we're leaving before we can really get started on the inside."

I nodded dumbly and swore to myself that I wouldn't buy so much as a stick of butter while I lived there. Then I thought of the cookies I'd planned to make for the neighbors. Well, maybe I could buy some. But I sure wouldn't eat it.

George stood frowning at the car during our conversation. "You'll have to get this fixed," he said absently, popping the hood and looking inside. A puff of nasty-smelling smoke floated up and enveloped his head. He coughed and waved his hat in the air in a vain attempt to clear it. "Until then, you'd better use mine. I'd feel much better if I knew you were in something a little more reliable than this." He slammed the hood shut again and dusted his hands off. "I'll get Officer Fredericks to help me push it in the garage, and you just put your keys away until we come back."

"I couldn't use your car," I protested. "You love that thing."

He put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. "I promised your mother we'd take good care of you," he told me, "and this is part of the package. And before you start making noises about insurance, I'll take care of it in the morning. So do it to make me happy."

I smiled up at him and nodded. "If you insist."

"Here's my baby!" Bea cried. She flung her arms out wide and beamed. "Come to Mama, Mr. Poppikins!"

A reddish-brown bear came hurtling toward her, its teeth bared and drool flopping from its jaws. I shrieked and took several steps backward. Fortunately, the bear ignored me completely and stopped right in front of Bea, giving her kneecaps a very vigorous bathing.

This was Mr. Poppikins? Somehow I'd envisioned something very different. And much smaller.

"Come here, Katie, so he can properly see you. My poor Mr. Poppikins can't see very well, can you, sweetums?" she crooned, bending over so the dog could transfer his attentions from her knees to her nose. "He's been waiting all day to meet you."

Edging closer, I watched him warily. Now that he wasn't flinging himself in my direction I could tell that he was, in fact, a dog. A very large dog, but definitely not a bear. Although he might have had some sort of bear ancestor somewhere along the line . . .

Mr. Poppikins took one look at me, sniffed, and went back to his mistress. George coughed and took my car key from my hand. "He does that to me, too," he muttered as he opened the trunk and began to carry my belongings through the garage door. "Ignores me completely. It's like he knows I'd prefer a goldfish."

I snickered and followed him into the house, leaving Bea and her baby to their lovefest. "If you didn't want a dog, why did you get one?" I asked. The inside of the house was, blessedly, not yellow, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

George grunted. "He found us, unfortunately. We came home from yoga class and there he was, digging up the flower beds next to the mailbox. Bea fell in love with him before I could take him to the Humane Society, and now we have a dog. And for the record, he sees perfectly well. Just wait until he spots a squirrel." He opened a door and stood back to let me in. "I'm sorry the interior hasn't been redecorated yet," he went on apologetically, "but Mr. Poppikins ran off with every can of paint I bought and I gave up after a while. If they resurface while we're gone feel free to paint anything you want."

Maybe that dog-bear and I had more in common than I thought. "I'll see what I can do."

Bea bustled in, Mr. Poppikins nowhere in sight. "I see George has shown you your room," she noted, looking around. "There's another one down the hall that should suit Oliver, or there's one in the basement if he prefers."

We spent the rest of the afternoon going over the house, and I made long lists of notes that I knew I'd never look at again. How hard could it be to remember to dust, vacuum, and water the plants? And how would they know if all the figurines lining the mantel weren't hand polished every Tuesday?

Bea made dinner as I unpacked, and I started to feel a little excited again. Sure, the house was a little buttery, but that gave it charm, right? And the view from my window was quite lovely. If Mr. P was the only thing between me and domestic bliss, I was set.

George knocked on my door as I was closing the chest of drawers. "Dinner's ready," he said, looking around. "It's nice to have someone living here. I think part of the reason Bea is so attached to that dog is because we never had any children of our own."

"You have me, Oliver, and Josie," I protested.

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. "I know we do, honey. But it's not quite the same." He paused, and then leaned closer to whisper in my ear, "Whatever Bea says, I do not approve of that dog eating at the table. He has a perfectly good dish hidden under the kitchen sink. You might want to get it out tomorrow. And keep it out." He winked at me solemnly, and we walked to the kitchen arm in arm.

Mr. P was already there when we poked our heads in the dining room. He was sitting on a chair like you see in commercials for fancy dog food, his paws crossed on the table. He appeared to be waiting for the Queen herself to sit across from him. I shot a glance at George, but he just looked at Mr. P with a long-suffering expression and murmured in my ear, "Under the sink. Don't forget."

Dinner conversation consisted of Bea giving me detailed instructions about Mr. P's care, which I promptly forgot once she handed over a huge three-ring binder containing all the information she'd just given me. What was the use of listening to her drone on if I could just look everything up once she was gone? I knew I was being juvenile; after all, caring for her dog was one of my primary responsibilities – but it had been a very long day, and my brain was starting to slowly subside into a chemistry-class fog.

Bea and George hugged me before I went to bed. "We're so glad you could come at the last minute," Bea said sincerely. "I'd be worried about things here at home if it were just Oliver. He's a dear boy, but I don't think men pay as much attention to details as women."

I tried to stifle a yawn. "I'm sure you're right."

She tutted at me and hugged me one last time. "We have to get an early start tomorrow, so we'll say our good-byes now. If you have any questions, the Fredericks down the street have left their number on the fridge."

"I've already met Officer Fredericks," I said without thinking.

Bea raised that eyebrow again. "Really? How did you run into him?"

I shrugged and tried to look casual. "I had a bit of a problem with George's map –" I shot him an apologetic look – "and ran into him downtown. He was very helpful."

"Well, call him or his wife if you need anything."

George pushed me gently toward the bedroom. "Let the poor girl go to bed, Bea," he said kindly. "She's almost asleep on her feet. We'll call in a few days." He hugged me before I stumbled down the hallway to my new bedroom. Ten minutes later I was watching the curtains flutter in the slight breeze that wafted through the open window. The last sound I heard before dozing off was Bea hurrying down the hall, Mr. Poppikins' feet clicking behind her on the wood floor.

***

The first thing I felt the next morning was something cold and wet lying on my cheek. I groaned and tried to push it away, but it was surprisingly strong. "Go away, Oliver," I mumbled. "It's too early for practical jokes."

The sound of a small freight train rumbled in my ear, and the next thing I knew I was staring into a pair of brown eyes that were disturbingly close to my own. I jerked back before I realized that it was just Mr. P.

"This had better not be the start of a pattern," I said feebly, falling back onto the pillows. "I don't care how early Bea feeds you; I'm on vacation. Go away."

At this Mr. P looked at me mournfully before trotting out of the room. Was that all it took? Go away? Man, this dog-sitting stuff was easier than I thought. I was almost asleep again when the sound of his paws moving purposefully down the hall made me cover my head with my pillow. It didn't work, though. A few seconds later Mr. P was back. He laid a book on top of the pillow and thrust his nose underneath it again, licking my ear.

Dogs were highly over-rated, I decided, and sat up to see what he was doing. The book he'd brought turned out to be the binder of dog-instructions Bea had given me at dinner the night before, and I flipped it open to the first section: Breakfast of Champions! After it stated how much food to give him, it went on to say, Mr. Poppikins always has breakfast in the sunroom, and he likes to watch the DVD that's in the video player while he eats. It gets him started off on the right foot.

I rolled my eyes. Was this a dog or a two-year-old? "Come on, Mr. P," I sighed as I stuck my feet into my slippers. "Breakfast of champions it is."

I sat next to him while he ate (out of the doggie dish I'd found under the sink, as George had told me, although I'd had to rinse the dust off it before it could be used) and watched his movie with him while I crunched my Cheerios. I snorted when Sylvester and Tweety flashed on the screen; it figured he'd like a cartoon where a canary always bests a cat. I glanced down at my slippers and made a mental note to get ones that had Garfield's head on them next time I needed a new pair.

After I got out of the shower I wandered through the house, trying to get a feel for my new home. George and Bea must have spent all their time outside, for while the interior was comfortable, the back yard was a masterpiece in outdoor living. Hot tub, fire pit, swing . . . the only thing missing was a swimming pool, although that could be a pain to look after. I sat on the swing and Mr. P sank to the ground at my feet, sighing happily. "You like it out here, don't you?" I asked, bending over and rubbing his ears.

I'd brought Pride and Prejudice outside with me, but for some reason that morning my mind wouldn't focus on the words in front of me – not even when I turned to Darcy's first misguided proposal, which I had memorized. I leaned my head against the side of the swing, rested my feet on Mr. P's back, and let the slow swaying of the swing lull me into a sort of half doze.

The nap ended when something hit my lap with a thud. Mr. P watched me as I ran my fingers along the binder's edge, wondering how he'd gotten it out of the house without so much as a bite mark. It fell open to the section on dog-walking, and I looked at Mr. P suspiciously.

"How did you do that?" I asked. He just thumped his tail on the ground and watched a bee in the flowers lining the porch. "All right, let's go. It says you like to walk on the Monon Trail, and Bea's put a map in here. Let's just hope she's better at directions than her husband is."

Once I got Mr. P, his leash, and my book in the back of George's car we drove down the street and I looked at the houses lining it with interest. The last house on the left before I had to turn was a smaller white home, and a woman was outside watering the petunias with a look of supreme boredom. With her tiny shirt – too low on top and too high at the bottom to be honestly considered a blouse – she appeared to be exactly the sort of female that would make Oliver hyperventilate. He had a thing for brunettes, and this one kept flipping her hair over her shoulder with a practiced finesse that said she'd been taunting boys for years. I grinned. Oliver would have his work cut out for him when he started studying in earnest.

Bea's map was much better than George's, a fact I would have to point out to him when they called, and soon we were walking along the trail – an old rail line that had been converted into a walkway that ran right through the heart of Indianapolis and points northward. It was a beautiful day, and Mr. P and I quickly got into a rhythm. Well, he pulled as hard as he could on his leash and I tried not to trot behind him. Who was the human here? I guess it depended on which side of the leash you happened to walk.

We'd been trotting along for a mile or so when Mr. P saw something scamper across the trail ahead of us. I can only guess it was a squirrel. If I had thought Mr. P was pulling me forward before, it was nothing to what he was doing now. I hung on for dear life and started praying that he wouldn't try to climb a tree -- and that the squirrel met a very painful, drawn-out death.

Unfortunately, I didn't specify to whatever deity was listening to me that I wanted Mr. P to stop running altogether, because the squirrel darted across the path again from the opposite direction, and Mr. P went berserk. He barked wildly and ran after it, and in the split second it took me to make sure I still had my copy of Pride and Prejudice safely under my arm he'd run around me several times. I stood there for a second, completely flummoxed at how the leash that I still held had become wrapped around my legs, midsection, and even around my arms before slowly teetering over and landing, breathless, on my rump. The book that I'd been so concerned about fell uselessly onto the asphalt several feet away, and since my arms were now pinned to my sides I decided not to worry about it. Mr. P stood there, panting, and finally giving up the fight he collapsed on the ground next to me, resting his head on my outstretched ankles and looking for all the world like he'd never seen a squirrel in his life – and didn't care if he ever did.

I wanted to kick him, I really did, but I just couldn't do it. For one thing, you're not supposed to kick animals (although I was beginning to think he wasn't really a canine at all but a demon in disguise and as such the rule didn't apply), and for another, my legs wouldn't move. How many times had he circled me, anyway?

We sat there for a minute, Mr. P and I, and after a second I bent over and leaned my head on his back. Hey, if he could use me as a pillow I could do the same to him.

I was beginning to think I might spend the rest of my days tied up on the Monon Trail when I looked up and saw a real, bona fide vision jogging toward me. Right in between Mr. P's reddish ears came a man I'd seen so many times in my dreams, most often after I'd watched any version of Pride and Prejudice I could get my hands on, that I recognized him at once. He was taller even than Oliver and had curly brown hair, and his run had made his t-shirt stick to him in all the right places.

"Holy Mr. Darcy," I breathed.

I thought about swooning, like they used to do before people figured out that brassieres didn't have to squeeze the living daylights out of you, but since I was already on the ground it seemed kind of pointless – and anyway, the man was looking earnestly down at the iPod in his hands, as though he couldn't figure it out, instead of at me, which would have been much more useful. For me, at least.

He was so busy flipping through his playlists that he didn't see me until it was almost too late. When he finally registered that he was about to run over a body tied up on the ground he skidded to a halt and stared down at me. Then, very cautiously, he walked closer, keeping a wary eye on Mr. P, and whispered urgently, "Are you all right? Should I call 911?"

I was pretty sure Elizabeth Bennet would have said something witty and sparkling at this point, but I was feeling decidedly Lydia-like and could only stare at him, my mouth hanging open in what I'm sure was a fairly good impression of a goldfish. The man inched around so he was on the side closest to Mr. P and said, "The only weapon I have is my iPod. Don't move your head; I'll try to knock it out and then you can make a run for it."

At this I snapped out of my Darcy-induced trance and tried to sit up. "I couldn't run even if I wanted to," I pointed out, only succeeding in wriggling sideways so my head slid down onto Mr. P's back. "He's relatively harmless, anyway. We had an unfortunate meeting with a squirrel, and, well, you can see the results for yourself."

He stood there for a second, like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about this information, and then threw his head back and laughed so hard he was clutching his sides. I must have looked rather affronted by this because he dried his eyes on his sleeve and squatted next to me.

"I'm assuming you're all right," he said conversationally. "You look too mad to be seriously hurt. I'm Sam, by the way."

"Katie." I said this as huffily as I could. Really, if he wasn't going to help me he should get out of the way so someone else could.

He stuck his iPod in his pocket and when he looked at me again his face was serious. "I would never laugh at a woman in distress," he said, sounding apologetic. "But I could imagine what happened, and I just couldn't help myself. I'm usually very gallant and charming." He paused for a second, then went on. "But I have to ask. Is your dog punishing you for misbehaving? Because if that's the case, you should probably find yourself a less demanding pet."

I shot a withering glare at Mr. P. "He's not actually my dog."

Sam lifted his eyebrows and got to his feet. He walked around me and Mr. P, trying to decide how best to get me loose. I hoped. "Then I have to assume you've kidnapped him and he's now holding you ransom in a strange sort of O. Henry parody."

I had to laugh. It was kind of funny. That didn't make me feel any more charitable toward Mr. P, but at least the squirrel had got away. I took a rather perverse pleasure in that knowledge. "I'm actually dog-sitting him," I told him as he finally stopped his circling. "I'm beginning to think I should have stayed in Vincennes. It was much quieter there."

"Vincennes, eh? You came all the way to Indianapolis to take care of a dog that clearly could eat you for a midday snack? That must be some friend. I hope he appreciates you."

"Somehow I think if they could see me now they'd be coming home on the first plane they could catch." Had I remembered to shave that morning? From the way he was staring at my legs, I was sure I hadn't. I shifted uneasily. "I hate to sound rude, but I don't suppose you could help me up? It might be easier just to turn around a few times, but I don't think I can manage to stand on my own."

"Right. Sorry about that." He ran behind me, placed his hands around my waist, and lifted me easily to my feet. I stumbled a bit and he held me for a second longer until I got my footing.

"Mr. Poppikins." I now understood why Elizabeth had been so rude to Mr. Darcy at the Netherfield Ball – she hadn't known what to do with herself while they danced, and just said the first thing that came to her mind.

Sam looked justifiably confused. "Excuse me?"

I knew I'd sounded stupid but went on gamely, like blurting out randomly ridiculous names was really very clever. "That's the dog's name." Sam started turning me around by the shoulders. He may have been doing it to keep me from seeing his face, but I didn't care. "He watches Looney Tunes every morning while he eats breakfast. I think my Aunt Bea is crazy for letting a dog do that."

"So it's your aunt's dog, then."

"Well, hers and Uncle George's. Although I think George would prefer to have a hamster." I stopped spinning in time to see Sam smile slightly. Was I repeating myself? I was feeling a little dizzy. Probably from all the turning around. "Why? Whose dog did you think he was?"

The smile got bigger. "I don't know," he said. "You didn't tell me. Are you going back to your car? I think I'd better walk you there if you are. For safety reasons, of course," he added when I looked at him questioningly.

He fell into step beside me, Mr. P's leash firmly in his hand. "So tell me, what are you doing with yourself besides dog sitting? Are you in Indy for a while, or are you going back home soon?"

"No, I'm here for a year or so. My parents' friends – that's George and Bea – left for Japan this morning, and Oliver and I are taking care of the house while they're gone. Oliver's my brother," I told him when his face lost some of the laugh lines around his eyes. "He's going to Butler in the fall, and I'll be looking for a job as soon as I get home and lock Mr. P in the basement for the next twelve months."

"What a coincidence." Sam turned his head to glance down at me. "My father owns a catering company downtown, and he might need someone. Do you think you'd be – "

All of a sudden I realized that my book, which had flown from my hands when Mr. P had performed his gymnastic exercises, was no longer within my sight. "Oh no," I cried, slightly panicked. "My book! Did you see it back there?"

I didn't wait for an answer and ran back, hoping it hadn't fallen into a puddle. I knew I could buy another copy, but I'd grown attached to this one and didn't want to lose it. It didn't take long before I was back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and there was Pride and Prejudice, lying face-down in the dirt next to the trail. I had just bent down to pick it up when Sam and Mr. P reached me.

"That must be some book," Sam commented, watching as I dusted off the cover. "You didn't really think you could read while you took Mr. Poppikins –" he paused to snort – "for a walk, did you?"

"No!" I paused. "Well, yes. This is my first time on the trail and I somehow thought Mr. P would be less attracted to the local wildlife. And I thought I could find a nice park bench somewhere."

Sam laughed and looped the leash more firmly around his wrist. "Well, Mr. P, I see you're as fascinated by the locals as I am." He gave me a sidelong glance. "So what's so important about this book that made you panic like that? It's just a book."

I tried to remember that not everyone had the same love for Jane Austen as I did, but it was hard when the person uttering such foolishness had looked so much like the hero of said novel only minutes before. "It's not just a book," I told him indignantly as I started walking again. "Pride and Prejudice is one of the best-loved books in the English language. Jane Austen has had a huge impact on the way we write – and read – today. Just because there aren't any shootings or car chases in it doesn't mean it's boring. Just a book indeed."

"Whoa, slow down there, Katie." Laughing, Sam held up his hands, making Mr. P's head jerk back a little. "I wasn't knocking your book. I didn't even know what it was."

I could feel the heat on my cheeks. "Sorry," I muttered, knowing I'd overreacted – again. "I didn't mean to go off like that."

Still laughing, Sam took the book from my hands and flipped through it. "I could tell I'd struck a nerve. So it's that good, huh? Maybe I'll have to read it."

I looked up at him in surprise. "You should. Not even my own brother has read it, and he's heard me extol its virtues on more than one occasion. Of course, that may be why he hasn't read it."

He gave it back to me and we walked for a while in companionable silence. When we'd stopped next to my car he handed me the leash and helped me stuff Mr. P in the backseat. "I'm parked just up the road," he said, gesturing vaguely up the street. "Are you really looking for a job?"

"Yes, I am."

He dug around in his pocket for a second before pulling out a card that had seen better days. "Like I said before, my father owns a catering company. If you think you'd be interested, stop by later in the week – say, Friday afternoon -- and I'll see if I can get you an interview. You may be just what he needs."

Peter's Perfect Catering. "Your dad's name is Peter?"

"Sure is. Peter Selman."

I put the card in my pocket and took the leash from Sam's hand. "Thanks for the help earlier," I told him. "I may have been there for hours if you hadn't stopped."

"Oh, someone else would have come along and untied you." He had a strange expression on his face. "It was a good excuse to meet you, though. I don't suppose you'd give me your phone number? You know, just in case Mr. P here decides to chase another squirrel."

Surely he wanted my number for reasons that didn't involve Mr. P. I opened the front door (it was a measure of his character that he didn't comment on the yellow interior) and grabbed a piece of paper Bea had left in the cup holder. I scribbled my information on it and gave it to him.

"You're not the Katie Embury, are you? You're way too nice to be the senator's notorious daughter."

"Nope, I'm just Katie Embury, daughter of Ted and Sally. Are you disappointed?"

He looked at me strangely. "Not on your life. Thanks for the walk. Will I see you on the trail again tomorrow?"

Staring pointedly at Mr. P, I shrugged. "That depends on how well Mr. Poppikins behaves tonight. But I'll look for you if I do."

He smiled and closed my door for me. "Then I'll hope to see you tomorrow. Preferable standing, and without the dazed look on your face." Then he waved and jogged down the street.

I watched until he disappeared from view. I now had a job prospect and a handsome, charming acquaintance – who'd asked for my number. What more could a girl possibly want?

I glanced into the backseat only to see Mr. P slobbering all over my handbag. Well, maybe a little less love would be nice.

Author's note: I'm glad people are reading this; I was a little concerned that NA wasn't popular enough for anyone to pay attention to. So let me know what you think!

Many thanks again go to Linnea for her stupendous beta work, and to CJ, who's going to get tire of me calling him in the afternoon for yet another question. You guys are awesome, no question about it!