Chapter Eighteen
‘So…’ I said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
‘So,’ Dylan repeated. ‘I’ve really enjoyed our walks, Maggie. And our chats.’
‘Me too,’ I said, fidgeting slightly and feeling horribly self-conscious.
‘I hope everything goes well with Bess.’
‘And I hope Charlie settles in quickly with you.’
Small talk. That was suddenly dying on our lips. Dylan opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated.
‘Look, I, um…’
‘Yes?’ I prompted.
Dylan fished in one pocket. Removed his wallet. Seconds later he was pressing a business card in my hand.
‘If you ever fancy going for a walk again, when Bess has settled in, and if you want some company’ – I realised he was gabbling – ‘then, er, give me a call.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised and delighted.
No need to look like you’ve won the lottery, Maggie. The guy is simply being friendly. He’s not exactly suggesting you swap phone numbers and follow up with a candlelit dinner.
I know, I know – I mentally replied – but, even so, this has cheered me up no end. It means our fledgling friendship isn’t over.
I glanced at the business card. It was plain, not remotely flashy. The print was an understated black over a white background.
Dylan Alexander, Manager followed by a mobile number.
Manager of what, I wondered. A shop? A garage? The local McDonald’s?
I had a sudden vision of Charlie sauntering in, putting two paws on the counter and saying, “Make mine a Big Mac.” I wondered how being a manager of anything meshed with owning a rescued dog.
Questions, questions. Maybe they would be answered another time. Maybe on our next dog walk. Yes, why not!
‘Thank you,’ I said, pocketing the card. ‘Well then…’
What now? Keep fidgeting from one foot to the other? Bravely lean in and peck him on the cheek? Or scamper off across the carpark, pink-faced with joy?
‘Take care, Maggie,’ said Dylan.
He briefly touched my forearm. Instantly one side of my body was engulfed in a tidal wave of zingers. And then he was off. Striding towards his car. A man on a mission. A man with a sense of purpose. A manager of something-or-other.
For a moment, I stared after him, then turned and walked towards my own vehicle.