The Obsession(52)

She kept her voice even. “What happened?”

“The Cove Chronicle. It comes out once a month. Just a few pages, local news and such. It’s a nice story about the house, fixing it up.”

“Oh.”

Local little paper. Nothing to worry about. Nobody but the locals would see it.

“I’ll leave you the copy. Jenny’s got more at home, as I got some ink, too.”

“I’ll read it when I get back. Thanks. I better go get the dog.”

She’d put off the reporter, editor, publisher—she thought the woman who’d wanted to talk to her wore all three hats. But it didn’t matter. Naomi took every precaution to keep her name out of print, to keep her whereabouts out of print.

Nobody beyond Sunrise Cove, or certainly no one outside the county, would read the article. And nobody would connect her with Thomas David Bowes.

And she had more important things to worry about right at the moment.

She dashed into the vet’s, muttered a thanks when the receptionist gestured her to go back. She found Alice fitting the dog with a cone.

He looked a little dazed and confused, but he let out a short, happy bark, and his tail wagged madly when he saw Naomi.

“He’s okay?”

“Came through like a champ. He has meds, and you have instructions. The cone’s to keep him from worrying the site, the stitches. He’ll probably sleep more than anything else. He may be a little sore and not want to walk much for a day or two.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” She got down, stroked his ears inside the cone. “You’re okay.”

She took the meds, the instructions, paid the bill, gave him a boost into the car.

He didn’t sleep. He had to sniff at everything in the front yard—though he walked a little stiffly. He had to sniff and wag at the crew. He and Molly had to sniff and wag at each other.

And he bumped into everything. Walls, tools, her.

She helped him upstairs, gave him the stuffed cat—a mistake, she noted as the cone got in the way.

One of the crew called up with a question. She went down, and in the fifteen minutes she was gone, he’d managed to get out of the cone and was licking away where his balls had once been.

“How the hell did you get out of that?”

Pleased, he thumped his tail.

“You can’t do that anymore. Those days are over.” She fitted the cone back on him—an ordeal, as he seemed to hate it more than the leash.

She got it back in place, gave him a rawhide, and considered the matter settled.

It wasn’t.

—

Xander figured he’d given it some time—and he had the excuse of paying her for half the ball snipping. Maybe, if he played it right, he could get another dinner out of it. And with that, maybe he could get her a few more steps closer to that big, beautiful bed.

It was worth the drive out.

He pulled up on his motorcycle, with the dog barking and wagging in greeting. The dog would’ve rushed over to finish the hello, but Naomi sat on the porch steps, and had the dog in a death grip.

Holding him in place while she . . . Jesus Christ.

Appalled, sincerely, Xander pulled off his helmet. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re putting pants on that dog.”

“Then that’s what the hell I’m doing.”

She dragged them the rest of the way on—red shorts with a white side stripe—then let the dog go.

She leaned back on the steps while the dog—looking like an idiot—hurried over for a rub.

“What kind of person puts pants on a dog?”

“The kind who isn’t going to keep fighting to keep the damn cone on him. He gets out of it. Kevin duct-taped the thing, and he still got out of it if I took my eyes off him for five damn minutes. And when he was in it, he ran into everything. Including me. I swear on purpose. He hated it.”

“Cone of Shame?”

“Yeah, the damn Cone of Shame. So now he’s wearing the Pants of Humiliation. But the stupid dog seems to like them.”

“Pants of Humiliation.” Xander had to grin. “You cut a hole for his tail.”

“Kevin had them in his truck. His old running shorts. I got creative.”

“Maybe, but how do you expect him to do what he needs to do out here?”

“Why the hell do you think I was dragging them back on him?” She waved her arms, winced, rubbed her right biceps. “I brought him out, took them off so he did what he needed to do. Now they’re on, and he can’t get to the incision site. In fact, he seems to forget about it when he’s wearing them.”

“Maybe you should buy him an outfit.” Impressed with her inventiveness, Xander sat down beside her, rubbed the dog. “I got my half of the deal. Alice said he did fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. I’m exhausted.”

“I can order a pizza.”

“No, thanks, but— Crap, just crap. Yes. Please order. The backs of my calves are covered in cone bruises. My arms ache from painting and from struggling with this dog—who’s putting on those pounds just fine, thanks.”

The dog brought Xander a ball he’d obviously stowed somewhere outside for easy access.