Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Knowing I can’t avoid the unavoidable unless I want to eat crackers and hummus for dinner, I pick up my purse and car keys, then head back to the garage.
At the grocery store, I grab a cart and head inside, telling myself that I’ll stick to the outer section of the store. I heard on one of the early-morning shows that you should avoid the inner aisles, that everything you really need is on the perimeter—fruits, veggies, meats, and dairy.
As I’m halfway through the store and feeling good about my choices, a bright-red box catches my attention. I know I shouldn’t gravitate to it, but I can’t help it. Fruity Pebbles are my weakness; there is nothing more delicious than a big bowl of the colorful cereal and ice-cold milk. After I grab the largest box I can find, I’m completely thrown off course. The inner aisles suck me in, and once more I end up checking out with a cartful of junk food. Thankfully, I did get some fruit, so I don’t feel so guilty.
I pack up my car and head home, driving down the main drag past all the local businesses, including the salon. Mount Pleasant is a typical South Carolina town. It’s filled with tourists, but the locals all know each other since most have been here for years. Having traveled often, I can say with authority that there is nowhere more welcoming.
When I drive onto my block, I wave at a few of my neighbors who are outside enjoying the fall weather. I pull into my driveway and frown at a large black dog lying on my front porch. Wondering who the dog belongs to, I pull into the garage. I swing my car door open as the garage door goes down, then let out a scream when the dog appears at my side, startling me.
“Nice puppy,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone when the dog starts toward me. Its tail begins to wag, and I let out the breath I was holding while I reach out my hand. “Good puppy.” I scratch the top of its dark head, which hits almost the middle of my stomach. “Who do you belong to?” I ask, checking its collar for a tag. When I find one, I read the front and smile at him. “Hey, Bruce.”
He barks, making me jump, and then nudges my hand to give him another rubdown. I pet the top of his head, then flip the tag over and read the name and number on the other side. I pull out my phone and call Tyler Duncan, leave a message with my name and number, and tell him I have his dog.
“I don’t know how my cat’s going to feel about you coming into the house,” I tell Bruce, rubbing his head. “Do you like cats?” He sits with a groan and tips his head to the side like he’s thinking about my question. “I mean for more than just snacking on.”
He lets out a huff, like he’s saying, As if, and I smile.
“You’re going to have to wait here for a few minutes while I get my groceries inside and lock Mouse in my room.”
With another groan, he lies down near my trunk. I unpack my car, carrying everything inside in one trip, because I also hate lugging in groceries. After I’m done, I go in search of Mouse, who’s asleep in his bed, which is suction cupped to the window in the dining room. I carry him to my bedroom and deposit him on the bed before shutting the door.
I bring Bruce inside, and he sniffs around for a few minutes before ending up in front of my bedroom door. Mouse, on the opposite side, reaches his tiny kitty paws under in an attempt to get out, and Bruce thinks it’s a game and begins to try to catch them. Not seeing any aggression between the two, I leave them and go to the kitchen to put away the groceries. As I start to make myself some dinner, I call the number for Bruce’s owner again and leave another message. Bruce smells the sautéing chicken and comes into the kitchen. He looks up at the stove, then at me.
“I don’t have any dog food, buddy,” I tell him, and I swear he pouts. “If I have to go out and get you some food, I will, but I’m hoping your owner will realize you’re missing and call me back before that.”
I watch him turn around in a circle and flop down on my kitchen floor, and then I go back to the stove and flip over the chicken as my cell phone on the counter rings. It’s a local number, so I slide my finger across the screen, then put my phone to my ear. “Hello?”