TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

  He had all the classic signs. He answered many of her questions in an indirect manner. He limited his eye contact. He tried not to reveal emotion. He was uncomfortable with physical contact. And he tried to puff himself up with all that stupid macho rugby garbage in an attempt to insulate himself from future hurt. It was his way of saying to the world, "Back off! You really don't want to mess with me!"

  Issues? You bet your ass he had issues!

  On Monday, she'd have Velvet transfer Hairy's follow-up care to someone else.

  She wiped her eyes and thought of that little dog. Poor Hairy. Of all the animal's problems, the biggest was that he was now owned by an emotionally impaired idiot.

  Emma straightened up and looked down at herself—a few pieces of hay clung to the old denim shirt straining at her ample chest. Dirt smudged the thighs of her jeans. Horse manure was packed into the thick treads of her barn boots. She laughed out loud at her own foolishness—why of course Thomas Tobin found you attractive, Miss Horse Offal! How could any man resist such beauty, such panache!

  Such a joke!

  The ground rumbled beneath her feet and Emma looked up to see Vesta racing toward her, all glossy muscle, speed, and fire. She stopped at the fence, snorted and tossed her head.

  Vesta stayed long enough to let Emma briefly stroke the white blaze between her huge, dark eyes. Then she was off again.

  As Emma watched the horse, she took a deep breath and made a promise to herself. From here on out, she wasn't going to waste another minute worrying about why she couldn't find a good man to love. Instead, she was going to be like Vesta, and just appreciate having the pasture all to herself, the wind in her hair, making the trip under her own power.

  If the right man never materialized, so be it.

  And if—miracle of miracles!—he showed up on her doorstep someday, her heart would know him in an instant. He'd be normal. Honest. Kind. He wouldn't lead her on or try to use her to support his bad habits. He'd be sweet to her. He'd love her just the way she was. He'd respect her.

  Emma decided right then that she'd waste no more energy pining for some man to sweep her off her feet—because clearly, once the sweeping part was over she'd end up sprawled on her butt!

  She watched Vesta out in the middle of the field, still cavorting and throwing her head in joy. It made her smile to think that maybe she had worked miracles with that horse.

  Maybe she could do the same with her own life. Maybe she really was an eternal optimist.

  * * *

  Damn, he felt like a senior citizen tonight. He'd done a number on his left knee in the serum. His lower back and neck were killing him. And he'd smashed up his left hand something fierce. If he wasn't careful they really would be carrying him off the pitch in a body bag, and soon.

  Hairy tugged at the leash as he sniffed eagerly around the base of a newspaper box. Thomas gave a few nervous glances around the street. He couldn't believe he was walking down a public sidewalk with a dog in a sweater. Dear God, there couldn't be a single thing more humiliating in this entire world.

  Unless, of course, Hairy had been out here in his maxi pad. Thomas sighed. Walking around the house with that thing tied around his waist, Hairy had looked like a—well, he'd looked like an ugly dog in a Kotex. Thomas had laughed his ass off at first, but soon discovered the crazy scheme had saved him about three cleanup jobs in one evening alone.

  Emma had been right.

  Thomas suddenly groaned in discomfort and stopped to press a hand into the small of his back while he stretched, giving Hairy just enough time to skitter around in circles and tangle the leash around his ankle.

  "Damn, Hairy. What have you done now?" Thomas reached down to unravel the mess and a hot streak of pain raced up his back. He was locked up. He couldn't move. Un-fucking-believable.

  "Are you all right, young man?"

  Thomas raised his eyes to see the familiar face of the elderly lady from three doors down. He had no idea what her name was—he'd never said a word to her. Obviously, that was about to change.

  "Fine, ma'am. Just a little stiff."

  "Well, I certainly know all about that." She made several "tsk tsk" sounds with her tongue. "Sometimes you just have to jerk up real quick and face the pain." She gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "I'll give you the number for my chiropractor, Dr. Feldman. He's wonderful. He—"

  "No. Really. I'm fine." Thomas heaved himself to a stand and watched black patches of agony pulsate on the surface of his retinas.

  "I'm Mrs. Sylvia Quatrocci, by the way. I'm a widow." The lady scrunched up her mouth and examined Thomas from head to toe, then wagged an eyebrow. "We've never officially met. You've always seemed too busy to talk before, always so serious."

  "Uh-huh." The pain was so bad Thomas feared he would faint. Meanwhile, Hairy had managed to nearly hang himself on the leash and was making wretched gagging sounds.

  "Here, let me help you with your little friend." Mrs. Quatrocci bent effortlessly and unhooked Hairy's collar from the leash, then yanked the thin cord of nylon out of Thomas's hand.

  "It's an unusual-looking little thing. What is it?"

  Thomas stood stunned and annoyed. A little old lady had just rescued him. The last time he checked, it was supposed to be the other way around.

  "It's a dog," he said.

  Mrs. Quatrocci laughed heartily and looked into the animal's face. "Well, no kidding. But what kind?"

  "A Chinese Crested—want it?"

  Her face widened in horror. "Of course I don't want it! I was just curious. Here." She shoved Hairy into Thomas's arms. "Be a little more careful with that leash. So what's your name again?"

  There was no again about it. "My name is Thomas Tobin."

  "Well, Mr. Tobin, it was a pleasure. I suppose we'll see each other around, the way we've been doing for the last five years. Maybe now we can exchange pleasantries the way real neighbors do."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Mrs. Quatrocci was about to continue her evening stroll but suddenly remembered she had another meddling question. "So what's her name?"

  Thomas nearly said "Emma," but stopped himself. "Whose name?"

  "The dog's."

  "Oh. It's a him. Hairy—H-A-I-R-Y."

  Mrs. Quatrocci roared with laughter. "That's just adorable!" She patted Thomas's arm and smiled sweetly. "You know, I never took you for a man with a sense of humor. Just goes to show you that you can't judge a book by its cover."

  "No, ma'am. I couldn't agree more."

  With that, she moved on. Thomas reattached the $10.95 green nylon leash to the matching $7.49 collar and was about to bend over and return Hairy to the sidewalk when he realized that wouldn't be a smart move. Who'd come along to rescue him next—a kid in a wheelchair?

  He pondered the physics involved in returning Hairy to the ground, then gingerly leaned to one side at the waist, dangling the dog above the concrete by one hand, getting as close to the sidewalk as possible before letting go.

  Hairy's legs splayed out upon impact and he yelped a bit, but nothing seemed to be broken. And they were off again.

  Emma had said that Hairy's anxiety would lessen with lots of exercise. She was right about that. Hairy definitely slept better if he'd had a half-hour walk in the evening. And the medicine, lotions, and relaxation exercises seemed to be helping a little. Hairy shook less. He seemed happier. His skin looked healthier.

  Emma had been right about so many things—the pustules, the maxi pads, the crate, the fact that they should be dating.

  Thomas groaned, and he wasn't sure if it was because his knees hurt or because he'd just remembered what Emma looked like as he'd walked away that morning. Her smile was gone. Her chin began to tremble, like she was going to cry. Those soft blue eyes looked shocked and hurt.

  Did she cry after he drove away? Did he make her cry? The thought made him sick.

  Oh, God, that little patch of skin right behind her ear had smelled like summer air and warm, delicious woman. And whe
n he'd nipped that earlobe between his teeth, she'd tasted like a dollop of hot salt-water taffy. He wondered what her other dollops might taste like. He wondered if she might ever be willing to give him another chance.

  He wondered why he wanted another chance.

  He wondered what was wrong with him.

  "Should I send her flowers, Hairy? Do you think she's the kind who likes flowers?"

  Hairy looked up at him.

  "Is she the dozen-roses type, or the tulip type, do you think?"

  Oh, God—just that single little taste of her and it had taken every bit of willpower he possessed not to fold her in his arms and touch her everywhere—those gorgeous breasts, that perfect, round butt of hers, the satiny throat. He'd wanted to put his mouth on hers and taste her on the inside. He wanted to cup her between her legs. He wanted to tell her she was—

  "…such a darling little thing!"

  Thomas nearly yelped with surprise. He had company again. Where were all these people coming from? Was Federal Hill overpopulated? And why the hell did everyone suddenly get the urge to take a walk?

  Thomas's eyes widened as he did a once-over on the man who now stood beside him. The guy was short and skinny with dyed blond hair and a silver hoop harpooned through his eyebrow. He wore a pair of black leather pants so tight that his lips should have been purple from the lack of circulation.

  Then Thomas realized the man had some kind of little dog, too. It looked like a wig on four sticks, wearing what could only be described as a purple halter top and matching, crotchless hot pants. What kind of man would put a dog in such an absurd get-up?

  Just then, the man made eye contact and broke out into a glorious smile, and extremely loud sirens began to wail inside Thomas's skull.

  "I'm Franco," the man said, holding out a manicured hand. "This is Quiche Lorraine. I don't think we've seen you out before. I'm pretty sure we would have remembered." Franco giggled and gave his head a sassy little shake.

  "I'm Thomas." He accepted Franco's hand and shook it. Real hard.

  "Ooh! Down boy!" Franco laughed uncomfortably, then rubbed his injured fingers. "So. Are you new to the neighborhood?"

  Thomas quickly summed up the situation. Could this nut job possibly think he was gay? And if so, why the hell would he assume something like that? Since when did he look gay? Since when did he sound gay? Was it something he was wearing? No, he was in a real hetero pair of cutoff sweatpants and an old Orioles T-shirt. Then what could it possibly—?

  Thomas looked down at the two dogs, their tiny tails wagging as fast as hummingbird wings as they sniffed at each other's ensembles.

  Oh, dear God.

  "You know, you don't see too many Cresteds in town," Franco was saying. "I knew a guy a few years back with one, but they're few and far between. How long have you had him?" Franco blinked, his mouth pulled into a pert little smile, waiting.

  "You've actually seen one of these before?" Suddenly, Thomas's back pain faded in comparison to the headache now eating away at his brain stem.

  "Of course."

  "Want it?"

  Franco giggled. "Uh, not really."

  A sharp "yip!" drew the men's attention to the dogs. They looked down to see Hairy humping Lorraine like there was no tomorrow.

  "Goddammit, dog!" He pulled at the leash, then looked at Franco in horror. "Uh, sorry about that, man."

  Franco laughed as he reached down to retrieve Lorraine. "It's perfectly natural—just the way dogs decide who's going to be the dominant one in the pack." Franco batted his eyelashes at Thomas. "You know, who gets to be on top."

  That was it. That was all he could take.

  Thomas mumbled goodbye in the most polite way he could muster, then sped down the sidewalk, dragging Hairy behind.

  "Hurry up, you horny little neutered—"

  Right then, Thomas swore to God above that he would never, ever, take Hairy out in public again. He'd get him a little doggie treadmill if he had to, but he wasn't taking this oversexed, sweater- and maxi pad-wearing, flamer-magnet on a walk again.

  Not in this lifetime.

  * * *

  What a great walk this has been—three new friends in one night!

  I think I'll lift my leg right here on this nice tree. Ahh, fabulous! Now everyone knows I was here. That I'm male. That I exist.

  What a lovely evening! My sweater feels so snuggly. The sound of my nails clicking on the sidewalk makes me happy. I feel proud to have Big Alpha at my side.

  Something feels so right about the two of us males out in the world together, leaving our scent on the neighborhood. I believe we could accomplish anything we set our minds to!

  I'm reminded of one of Slick's favorite songs.

  "Macho macho man … I wanna be a macho man!"

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  When Will I See You Again?

  « ^ »

  When Emma entered the clinic Monday morning, she thought she'd strayed into somebody's funeral by mistake.

  There were flowers everywhere.

  A huge cut-glass vase of roses—at least two dozen flaming red blooms—sat atop the registration counter. On the small table usually reserved for Lyme disease brochures sat a woven basket overflowing with black-eyed Susans. A blue speckled crock of late summer wildflowers sat near the display for engraved dog tags.

  Emma stared in amazement. Then fury.

  How dare he do this to her?

  "There's more in your office, Em." Velvet's dark head popped up over the registration counter, and she was smiling ear to ear. "I read all the cards so I have a general idea what's going on, but I'm still dying to hear the gory details." Velvet sighed dreamily. "This is just about the sweetest thing I've ever seen a man do."

  Emma felt her shoulders sag and her spirits sink. In silence, she trudged through the door that led to her office and exam rooms.

  "Hey!" Velvet called after her. "Don't you want to see what he wrote, Em?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Emma?"

  She threw her backpack onto an office chair and clicked on her computer, the anger swelling and burning inside her chest. It was then she noticed the porcelain teapot smack in the middle of her desk, overflowing with carnations and baby's breath, and a matching china plate piled with teas and chocolates.

  How dare he?

  "Em?"

  "Get this stuff out of here, Velvet. Now. Please. Before I blow a gasket." Emma logged on the computer with loud, pounding strikes on the keyboard. She checked her e-mail with her back toward her assistant.

  Velvet stopped and frowned. "Hey. You really are mad." She plopped down in the empty office chair. "I'm sorry. I just assumed you'd be happy about this. Maybe we should just get right to the details."

  "There are no details, Velvet!" Emma wheeled around in her chair. "The man is sick. An addict. A manipulator. And you'd think, of all the people in the world, you'd be the last person who needed me to spell this out! God! And why he thinks flowers—freaking flowers!—are going to somehow make up for all the shit he's put me through I'll never know! And to think he had the nerve to ask me for money again when this pointless gesture must have cost a fortune! I just want to go on with my life! Is that too much to ask?"

  Emma took a big breath. "Is it?"

  She let her face drop into her hands and tried to get a grip on herself. She refused to start off the week like this. He had no right to do this to her—no right! The sound of Velvet's laughter caused her to look up.

  "Excuse me? Is there something funny about this?"

  "Well, yeah." Velvet kept giggling. "It sounds like you two managed to cover quite a lot of ground on your first date."

  At that instant, Emma saw the elaborate gift basket full of dog treats directly in her line of vision—chewies, biscuits, Nylabones, rawhide sticks. It was perched on the bookcase below the display of her diplomas, bundled up in fancy clear plastic wrap and tied with a huge red polka dot bow. Her mind was reeling. Velvet's comments made no se
nse.

  "You've completely lost me." Emma picked up the computer printout of the day's appointments and groaned. Sigmund Goetz and Roscoe the blue point Siamese were her first order of business. She was at the bottom of her bag of tricks for that poor old man and his schizophrenic cat and she knew it.

  Velvet reached behind her for the small white envelope taped to the dog bones. "Here, Em. Read this. It'll clear things up for you." She forced the card between Emma's closed fingers. "This is my personal favorite, but honestly, the one with the wildflowers made me cry. He's not only gorgeous—he's extremely romantic."

  Emma stared blankly. "Whaa?"

  "Just read this. Then tell me everything."

  Emma opened her palm and stared at the envelope, her name written in an unfamiliar hand—bold, squarish letters that took up a lot of space. She pulled out the card.

  Emma,

  Even if you throw away all the flowers, I know you'll keep these for your patients. I apologize for my behavior the other night. I'd like to see you again.

  Thomas

  Her mouth fell open. She took an awkward gulp of air and nearly choked.

  Velvet jumped up to pat her back. "Are you all right?"

  Emma shook her head. "Hell, no, I'm not all right! Oh, my God—this is so awful!" Emma threw the card on her desk and quickly grabbed the one tucked beneath the china plate.

  Emma,

  I hope you like chocolate. I opted for every kind of tea they had because I didn't know which you preferred.

  Thomas

  Emma leaped from her chair and went flying back out into the waiting room, the door thudding in Velvet's face as she stumbled behind her.

  "Emma! Wait!"

  She went for the wildflowers first because they were closest, and pulled so violently at the dainty white envelope that its plastic prong went flying across the room, sticking in the vinyl window blinds.

  Emma,

  These reminded me of you—simply beautiful.