Violet herself wasn’t ancient. At twenty-eight, she was technically a millennial. But she taught gentle yoga at the senior center, which meant most of her closest friends used walkers. Naturally, she’d developed something of an old soul herself.
She glared at the firefighter, who looked light years from needing a walker. He could probably downward dog all day long without tipping over once. They held each other’s gazes for a beat or two—just long enough for Violet’s cheeks to go warm. Her insides were suddenly full of butterflies, which she attributed to the fact that she was currently the victim of a crime. Then the wail of a police siren pierced the loaded silence.
Violet shot the fireman a triumphant smile. “Not going to happen, huh? Keep telling yourself that, Cruella.”
***
Never in his life had Sam Nash been likened to a Disney villain.
On the contrary, people typically slotted him nicely into the Prince Charming camp. Sam wasn’t particularly fond of that label either, but he had to admit that it was preferable to being compared to a sinister diva with a fondness for Dalmatian fur and an unfortunate two-tone wig.
“Look,” he said to the obstinate woman who seemed intent on having him thrown in jail, “this is all nothing but a misunderstanding.”
But she didn’t appear to hear him because she was too busy waving wildly at the two uniformed police officers who’d just crested the dune and were headed in his direction.
Common sense told Sam he should be relieved at their presence. Maybe now he’d have an opportunity to explain himself. Between the three of them, maybe they could talk some sense into his accuser. But some strange instinct made him feel like his trouble was just getting started.
Sure enough, as the officers drew closer, Sam could see the scowls aimed squarely in his direction. The two cops had apparently already chosen a side in the Dalmatian war and it wasn’t his. His only supporters appeared to be the lingering dogs. A Lab mix nudged its head beneath his hand, angling for a scratch behind the ears.
With a sigh, Sam acquiesced.
He’d thought long and hard before picking up his life and moving to Turtle Beach. Everyone at his station back in Chicago thought he’d lost his mind. You’ll die of boredom, they had said. The only actual fires you’ll see are sparklers on the Fourth of July.
Sam hoped they were correct. He could use more boredom in his life. He craved it, actually. All he wanted was a quiet little existence in a quiet little seaside town. How had things managed to go so wrong so quickly?
He shifted his focus back to the flailing woman. She was the reason. No doubt about it.
His temples throbbed with irritation, and somehow the fact that he found the troublesome woman attractive irritated him even more. Not that he was remotely tempted to do anything about that attraction. Ever. It was just kind of hard not to notice the way the waves lapped at her feet as if she were some kind of furious moon goddess.
“Joe! Josh!” She let out a high-pitched squeal and threw her arms around the nearest cop. Sam had a sudden vision of himself behind bars. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
The officer who wasn’t currently being bear-hugged narrowed his gaze at Sam. “What seems to be the problem here?”
The retirees at the other end of the beach were now watching the scene with rapt interest.
“He’s got Sprinkles.” The woman pointed toward the spotted dog at the end of Sam’s leash. “He stole her when I wasn’t looking, and now he won’t give her back.”
“This isn’t your dog,” Sam said. It seemed important to get that little nugget of information out in the open before the discussion went any further, especially in light of all the police PDA.
The two cops glanced at the Dalmatian, whose name was Cinder, not Sprinkles. She’d been Cinder since the day Sam adopted her from the city pound.
“She definitely looks like Sprinkles,” one of the policemen said.
The other officer nodded. “And Sprinkles is the only Dalmatian in Turtle Beach.”
“Exactly.” The woman glared at Sam and held out her hand. “Give me the leash.”
“No,” Sam said.
“No?” Officers Joe and Josh echoed simultaneously.
“No,” Sam repeated, more firmly this time.
The nearby corgi snorted his displeasure at hearing one of dogdom’s least favorite words repeated in such rapid succession. The retirees were now headed their way, a few of them leaving winding trails in the sand from the wheels of their aluminum walkers.
“Sprinkles, wherever she is, isn’t the only Dalmatian in town. Not anymore.” Sam nodded toward his dog, still maintaining a perfect down position beside him despite the epic level of the surrounding chaos. “This is Cinder. She belongs to me, and my name is Sam Nash. We’re new to Turtle Beach.”
“And you’re a…” Officer Joe looked him up and down. “A fireman?”
One of the senior citizens—an old man wearing suspenders and a newsboy cap—shook his head in apparent disgust.
Sam had no clue why fireman seemed to be a dirty word all of a sudden, but he had no intention of sticking around to chat about it. He didn’t want to be late for his first day on the job, plus he had a beach house full of moving boxes that needed unpacking.
He nodded. “I’m the new fire marshal. Cinder is my partner. Check the name on her tag.”
The policemen peered at Cinder and then back toward Sam’s nemesis, which was somewhat of a foreign concept for Sam since he’d never had a nemesis before. Not even close. But if he had to have one, at least his nemesis was nice to look at, with waves of tumbling strawberry-blonde mermaid hair and eyes the color of sea glass.
She was a mess, though. Clearly. A brazen, beautiful mess.
“Please.” She rolled those lovely blue-green eyes so hard they practically rolled right out of her head. “Are you saying I can’t recognize my own dog?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Impossible.” She tucked a lock of her mermaid waves behind her ear.
One of the cops cleared his throat. The other one’s lips pressed together in a slight grimace. The retirees glanced back and forth between them. Officers Joe and Josh seemed conflicted, which made Sam feel like he might just walk away from the dog beach a free man.
“Violet,” Officer Joe said in a measured tone, “do you think maybe…”
Before he could finish his thought, a blur of black-and-white spots leapt into their midst and shook itself, spraying all those assembled—human and dog alike—with seawater.
Correction: not just seawater, but some horrible combination of seawater and whatever fishy substance the spotted troublemaker had recently rolled in.