“Contrary to public opinion, I was not escaping the long arm of the law, or forced to do community service for my misdeeds, or part of a gang, or whatever gossip you heard.”
“But some rumors were right. Or close, at least.”
He rolled his eyes. “The truth is, my dad told me if I wanted to keep this dog, I had to move out.”
“What?” She blinked at him.
He shrugged. “He’d been looking for a way to get rid of me ever since one of the harem thought I should join in their fun.”
She drew back, slightly horrified. “Now that one hasn’t hit the rumor mill.”
“I declined,” he said quietly. “I really am shy. And kind of not into…that. Anyway, Tor and I took off the next day.”
“To stay with your aunt and uncle…ish.”
He looked like he was about to say more, then reconsidered it, shifting his attention to the sleeping dog next to him. “Has it been five minutes? Can we test his skills?”
“Sure.” She handed Lucas a treat, and instantly Tor was up, looking at the Milk-Bone. “Remember what word to use. Only once and his name.”
He nodded and held the treat just out of reach. “Down, Tor.”
Tor blinked, but didn’t move.
“Down,” Lucas repeated. “And…nothing.”
“Attention! Attention!” They both spun around at the order from a man in a red jacket marching through the tables, holding out flyers like he was selling newspapers.
“Isn’t that the cashier from the pet store?” Pru asked.
“Yup.”
“We have a missing puppy from The Animal House pet store! If you see this dog or someone with this dog, he needs to be returned ASAP.”
Lucas and Pru shared a look of dismay, but before they could say a word, the man spotted them—well, he spotted Tor.
“Nice work, you two,” he muttered, slapping a flyer with a photocopy of a dog’s picture on it. “Buttercup was either stolen or lost in that mess you created.”
Pru sucked in a breath when she recognized the basset puppy who had captivated Tor’s attention. “Oh gosh, that’s horrible.”
The cashier—although the name badge he wore said David, Manager—just shot Lucas a dark look. “I should have known you were up to no good with that whole random-act-of-kindness crap. For all I know, you arranged to steal Buttercup. That basset is worth a lot of money on the street.”
Lucas just looked away, his expression blank.
But incredulity and fury shot through Pru. “Excuse me? You’re accusing him of stealing a dog?”
“Probably stole this one,” the guy said, glancing at Tor.
“He’s a racing rescue.” Pru practically sputtered the words. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
The guy gave her a get real look and threw another one of pure disgust at Lucas. “Just stay the hell away from my store,” he said. “We don’t need any more trouble.” With that, he pivoted, then turned back to fire one more parting shot. “Someone was supposed to get that dog today, and you wrecked their Christmas!”
At the vicious tone, Tor dropped right to the ground, his head down, eyes up. Pru leaned over to rub his back, sympathy welling up for how he reacted when the man yelled.
“Lucas,” she said, watching how he looked away, too, very much like the dog. “Are you going to just sit there and let him accuse you of stealing dogs?”
He shrugged. “People suck.”
“And need to be corrected.”
“Pru, chill.” He ran a hand through his long, unruly hair. “I’m used to it. People assume the worst.” He leaned forward. “Didn’t you?”
She held his gaze for a long time, almost unable to look away. “Did. Past tense. All it took was about an hour of talking to you to see I was wrong.”
He let out a soft sigh, barely audible over the din of the food court, then stood. “Shouldn’t we be doing something kind?” he asked, picking up the twenty-dollar bill. “I think I’ll go buy someone’s lunch. Be sure to get a picture. Otherwise, no one will believe I’m capable of it.”
He took off with Tor, leaving her with the doxies and a whole lot of questions. And some serious shame for ever assuming the worst of someone who was actually more than a pretty face. A lot more.
Chapter Eight
“He moves fast for an old guy,” Finnie said from behind Agnes’s shoulder.
“No, you move slow,” Agnes grumbled, keeping her gaze locked on the man in the red and white Santa outfit headed toward an escalator. “Where the hell is he going in Penney’s?” she murmured under her breath.
“Agnes.” Finnie underscored the warning with a gentle but firm hand, a touch Agnes recognized so well. She was trying to smooth out Agnes’s rough edges, which was normally appreciated, but Agnes was too frustrated by the day to appreciate anything.
“You really don’t want me to have any fun, do you, Finnie?”
“If by ‘fun’ you mean swearing and mocking my old legs that don’t move quite like they used to, then no.”
Aldo was stuck behind a group on the escalator, so Agnes took a second to turn, ready to sling back a comment that bubbled up from deep inside. But one look in those Irish blue eyes, and the volcano suddenly quieted.
And that was Finola Kilcannon’s secret power.
“I’m sorry, Finnie,” she said on a sigh. “It’s my nerves and disappointment, I guess. I thought he was going to be…wonderful.”
Finnie’s tiny shoulders dropped, and the fight went out of her at the same time. “Maybe he is wonderful, Agnes. Maybe we didn’t hear that whole business correctly.”
“But I’m afraid we did.”
“Donchya be worryin’, lass.” She gave a light nudge to Agnes’s shoulder. “If he gets off that escalator, and we lose him, we’ll never forgive ourselves. Haul your butt, Greek grandmother.”
Agnes snorted a soft laugh, a familiar affection welling up. “Okay, then hold my arm, and let’s power through the crowds.”
They did, parting people like Moses at the Red Sea, until they were about twenty feet behind him.
“He has fine shoulders,” Finnie whispered as they gazed at him.
“And a fine Santa rear under all that fur.”
They both giggled their way to the top of the escalator, spotting him heading to the Men’s Department, threading his way around tables of wallets and belts, all the way to the Customer Service Department.
“Bathroom?” Finnie guessed.
“Could have used the one downstairs,” Agnes said. “But—oh, look.”
A man came up to him, holding a shopping bag, stopping to talk. They were too far away to hear anything, but Agnes studied the man who didn’t look much older than any of her grandsons. He had dark hair, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and leaned in to talk to Aldo.
After a moment, he gave Aldo the shopping bag, chuckled about something, then shook his head as he walked away. Aldo headed toward the Customer Service entry, disappearing around a corner.
“’Twas a handoff,” Finnie said. “Drug deal? Money laundering?”