Chapter 2
Sloane – a woman who’s always late but it’s never her fault
Sloane
I roll over in bed and snuggle into the blankets. My dog whines.
“Five more minutes, Boozer boy.”
The mix between a Golden Retriever and a Great Dane licks my face, and I shove him away.
“Knock it off. It’s not time to get up yet.”
My alarm blares. Bummer. It is time to get up. I slap the alarm clock to shut it up. An alarm clock is old-fashioned, but since I have the tendency to throw blaring items across the room in the morning – I am not a morning person – a cheap alarm clock works best.
I shove Boozer off me and roll out of bed. I stretch my arms into the air before bending over to touch my toes. There. I’ve exercised for the day.
Boozer sticks his snout under my hand. “Does someone need extra loving this morning?”
I kneel down to pet him and he immediately rolls over onto his back. His tail thumps on the ground as I scratch him.
“Who’s a good boy? Who’s my good boy?”
Boozer jumps up to lick my face. “There’s my baby.”
Don’t ya just love dogs? Dogs are reliable and trustworthy. Unlike men.
“Come on. Let’s have some breakfast.”
Boozer rushes out of the bedroom. He slips and slides as he runs down the hallway to the kitchen. I’m not as fast as I follow him. I feed him before settling at my tiny kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
My phone beeps with a message.
Where are you?
I frown. Why is Lana, the mayor of Smuggler’s Rest – the largest town on the island of Smuggler’s Hideaway where I live – messaging me?
At home. Where else would I be?
You forgot. I knew you’d forget.
Forget? What could I have possibly forgotten? Today is my day off. I only set my alarm because I’m tired of cleaning up Boozer’s mess if I don’t let him out early enough. I don’t have anywhere I need to be. I—
Damn. I did forget. I promised to help out at the Mermaid Lagoon Race. Only in Smuggler’s Hideaway would people shove themselves into glittery mermaid tails, attempt to swim in them, and call it a festival.
Supposedly, it celebrates the island’s ‘heritage’ – smugglers hiding their loot on the island during Prohibition – but mostly it’s an excuse to drink questionable moonshine before noon and argue about whether mermaids are real.
(They are. Ask anyone who’s had three shots of moonshine and seen the sunrise.)
I’m on my way.
I jump to my feet. My elbow hits the table and my cup of coffee wobbles. I try to grab it but it tips over before I reach it. Coffee spills all over the table. I slap a hand down to stop it but all I succeed in doing is burning my hand.
“Ouch!”
Boozer barks.
“Shush, baby boy,” I admonish as I rush for a towel. There aren’t any hanging in the usual spot – probably in the wash – so I reach for a paper towel. Only to notice the roll is empty.
“Figures,” I mutter as I whip my shirt off to use as a towel.
Once I’ve mopped up the mess, I throw the t-shirt in the overflowing hamper – I’ll get around to doing the laundry one of these days – before jumping into the shower. Boozer whines and pokes his snout into the shower.
“I’ll walk you before I go to work.”
He stares at me with his big, brown eyes. “Don’t make me feel guilty for working. If I don’t work, there’s no doggy kibble for you.”
He barks before settling on the bathroom mat to wait for me. There’s no such thing as privacy when you have a dog.
Once I’m dressed, I hook Boozer up to his leash. I open the door and he tries to rush outside. I hold him back so I can peek into the hallway first. Good. There’s no one around.
It’s possible I lied to my landlord about having a dog. It’s not my fault. I didn’t have a choice. There aren’t many apartment buildings on Smuggler’s Hideaway that accept dogs and I may have been kicked out of those. I can’t help it if Boozer gets excited when he meets other dogs.
We run down the hallway to the stairs. I know. I know. I shouldn’t let Boozer walk down two flights of stairs. It’s bad for his hips. But it’s better than him peeing in the elevator. Trust me. The smell of dog urine is impossible to mask. My nose wrinkles at the memory.
We exit the apartment building and I exhale a sigh of relief. We made it.
“Aha!” Melanie – aka the bane of my existence – shouts as she rushes around the corner.
I startle and Boozer howls in response. I scratch behind his ears as I allow my heart rate to settle.
“I knew you were hiding a dog in there!”
I have to tread carefully here. Melanie works in the mayor’s office. The last thing I need is for her to tattle to the mayor on me.
“I’m not hiding a dog.”
She points to Boozer. “What’s that?”
Boozer growls in response and I tighten my hold on his leash. He doesn’t usually snap at people – he’s more a lover than a fighter – but Melanie isn’t usual people. She’s a prude who enjoys ruining everyone else’s fun. She needs to find a new hobby.
“Boozer isn’t my dog. I’m dog-sitting.”
It’s not completely implausible since I’m known for doing all sorts of odd jobs around the island. I work as a bartender at Rumrunner full-time but in the winter, when the tourism slows down, I need to supplement my income.
Melanie crosses her arms over her chest and purses her lips. It’s not a good look on her. “If you’re dog-sitting, why have I seen you with this beast for the entire year you’ve been living in this building?”
I shrug. “Because I dog-sit for him more often.”
“You’re lying. And once I prove you’re lying, I’ll tell the landlord.”
“There’s no reason to tell the landlord since I’m not lying.” I’m also not crossing my fingers behind my back. Lie. I’m totally crossing my fingers behind my back. It never hurts to hedge your bets.
She narrows her eyes. “I heard your dog barking and thumping his tail this morning.”
“I told you. I’m dog-sitting.” There. I didn’t lie this time. Go me.
She wags her finger at me. “One of these days, your lying is going to get you in trouble. And I’ll be there to witness it.”
I beam at her. “How nice you want to witness me living my life.”
My phone beeps. Uh oh. It’s probably Lana asking where I am. “It was lovely seeing you. But I’m in a hurry this morning.”
“When aren’t you in a hurry?” she mutters as we pass her.
I ignore her snarky comment. No good can come from my response. Besides, I’ve hit my limit of lying for the day and it’s not yet ten o’clock.
And it’s possible she may be correct. I am always in a hurry. But it’s not my fault. I have a lot going on in my life. Hurrying is a necessity.
I make my way to the beach with Boozer. I hope I don’t get kicked out of my apartment because the proximity to the beach is awesome.
I keep a tight hold on Boozer’s leash as we meander toward the water. My phone beeps again. Oops. I forgot all about the earlier message.
I dig my phone out.
You’re late.
I start to respond but then Boozer barks and yanks on the leash. I tighten my grip and dig my heels into the sand, but he’s stronger than me. Way stronger.
“Boozer, no.”
He lunges anyway, muscles straining, tail wagging at the rabbit twitching his nose at him from the dune grass.
“Don’t you dare.”
He dares.
The leash jerks, and I go flying forward. I release him at the last second before I face-plant. Sand fills my mouth and my nose.
Boozer tears off in hot pursuit.
Thirty minutes later, after chasing him through most of the island’s beaches and muttering threats of obedience school, I finally knock on Pam’s door.
Pam dog-sits Boozer when I have to work.
She opens it, takes one look at me – hair wild, shirt covered in sand, mascara smudged like raccoon eyes – and her mouth drops open.
“I can explain.”