The Last Drive Home (Golden City #3)

Prologue - Liam

Six Weeks Earlier

"Sammy, stop! Wait!"

My feet nearly slip out from under me as I dive forward, bounding down the Golden City street. I multitask, bobbing and weaving around pedestrians while simultaneously keeping my eye on the golden blonde ball of energy now getting further and further away.

“Sorry, man!" I yell over my shoulder, my shoes still pounding on the pavement.

Sammy, my—no, Ruthie's dog—continues scurrying down the street toward anywhere but our house. His hairy ass wiggles back and forth as it always does, and his leash trails behind him.

He does this on purpose. Maybe I can't prove it, but he has never run away from Ruthie while she was out walking him around our neighborhood.

But me? I take him for a nice jog—where he can watch the sunset between the buildings while he burns off some of his boundless energy, the spring breeze blowing in his fur—and this is how he repays me.

I watch as our golden retriever's tail whips back and forth as he rounds the corner next to Drippy's coffee shop.

I say a quick prayer that they're currently baking cinnamon rolls, French vanilla muffins, literally anything that may catch his attention and reel him in.

But as I approach the building, I can tell they aren't.

I should've known.

Wiping a drip of sweat from beneath the brim of my hat, I try to see the bright side—my casual evening jog just turned into a full-blown run.

Not necessarily my plan, but I'll never turn down a chance to get a workout in.

As a thirty-eight-year-old starter, I have to keep my game up.

And as an over-protective girl dad, I have to maintain my intimidation factor.

"Sammy!" I yell again, hoping maybe someone will take pity on me and grab his leash. Or that the wild animal we call a pet will finally listen.

Neither happens.

Instead, Sammy reaches yet another corner as my Gators shirt clings to my chest. Knowing the next street is more residential than the busier ones we've been navigating, I pick up speed, assuming I'll finally have a little more room to take off.

I huff out a breath as I gear up to sprint, but when I pivot around the corner, I realize… I don't have to.

Sammy stopped.

His tail is still wagging, his long, total pain-in-my-ass fur is still waving gently in the wind, but he's no longer sprinting away. Instead, he's sitting and… eating ice cream?

My gaze follows the arm attached to the cone he's lapping, settling on a woman with pink cheeks and a genuine smile.

Her long blonde hair is pulled back in what Ruthie would call a messy ponytail with tendrils hanging down, framing her face.

Her eyes are locked on Sammy as she watches his long, wet tongue lick up the ice cream now leaning off the cone.

I slow my pace until I'm walking, getting lost for a second as I watch her watch him. Not staring, just… intrigued.

She laughs, and it surrounds me—like when Ruthie was younger and she'd hide in one of those playground tunnels.

I'd pop through the other side to scare her, and she'd burst out in laughter that echoed off the thick, green plastic.

It mesmerizes me unexpectedly. But when a biker zooms past me as I drift toward the curb, I snap back to reality.

"Sammy!" I call out for what feels like the hundredth time. Still, he doesn't respond, but the woman feeding him sugar he definitely doesn't need lifts her head to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I say, closing the gap between us. "Sammy, stop that."

She shakes her head and stands, her body still bent in half so that the dog can continue eating the caramel-colored ice cream.

"I assume he's yours?" she says as if it's a question.

I tug on the brim of my hat with one hand and drop the other to my hip. "Unfortunately," I sigh, catching my breath.

Her mouth drops open in faux-offense, and I smile at her immediate loyalty to the hairy mutt at her feet.

“No, he's not all that bad." I lean down and rub Sammy's head. He turns to finally look at me, the tip of his nose covered in ice cream. I laugh and roll my eyes, and he goes back to indulging in his treat. "Sorry about your dessert."

In perfect timing, what's left on the cone falls to the ground, and the woman stands as Sammy leans down to finish the job.

"Don't be," she says, holding up her other hand. "A family I used to nanny for had a Golden.” She takes a lick of a second cone, and I'm not sure what throws me more—the pinch in my stomach when her tongue runs along the scoop of pink or the fact that she has two cones to begin with.

"Sweet tooth?"

She snorts as she pulls her top lip between her teeth to get the remnants from her last lick off of it. "Maybe." Pulling a napkin from her back pocket, she wipes her mouth. "But that one was his." She points to the now-empty spot below a chomp-licking Sammy and tilts her head behind her.

Another thing I must not have noticed—because of Sammy's behavior, of course—is that she's not alone. Not technically. A man in black joggers and a grey quarter-zip sits on the bench behind her, his eyes squinted as he exerts what looks like all of his brainpower to zoom in on his phone screen.

"He's not gonna eat it," she continues. "He just got one because he knew it'd shut me up. Where's the fun in eating ice cream alone?"

I hold back my comment about her still eating alone if he's over there doing whatever it is he's doing, and grab the leash now at my feet. "Then it's a good thing Sammy here helped you out with that."

"Yeah," she says. She squats back down and brings both hands behind the dog's ears. "How did I get so lucky?" She looks up at me and cocks a brow.

The corner of my lips turn up as I exhale heavily. "I stopped to tie my shoe," I explain to Sammy's nose, now pointed in the air.

"Well, why did you do that?" she asks in a playful voice. She's looking at Sammy, but I assume she's not waiting for his answer.

"I'm not sure, honestly. I guess I thought it might prevent an injury—maybe avoid some sort of embarrassing situation in front of a stranger."

"And how did that work out for you?" Her head lifts as her eyes drift to mine. The green in them catches the light of the distant sunset, and I find myself noticing.

"You tell me."

We hold each other's gaze for longer than I realize until Sammy turns around and jumps on me, stretching his paws up my chest.

"Hey," I say, my mind drifting back to what it always does at times like these—Ruthie.

I pet Sammy once before pushing him down, ignoring the way his new favorite person tracks the peaks and valleys across my shirt.

"I know this is probably a long shot—also very likely that it's creepy—but is there any chance you still do the nanny thing and are as good with preteen girls as you are with dogs? "

Her eyebrows lift as she stands again. "In the caretaking sense," I clarify. "I have an almost twelve-year-old daughter, and the woman who helps us is leaving as soon as we find a replacement."

"Oh no, I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm actually not."

Her eyes go wide. "That bad?"

"No," I quickly clarify. "I'm just super happy for her. Nellie is an amazing artist and an even better person. She'll do great where she's headed, and thankfully, we'll still get a chance to see her. But she's definitely gonna leave a hole in our lives."

"Sounds like you were all close."

"We were," I say, grinning. She nods, and a weight settles in my chest. It's so light I almost don't feel it, but it's there. And I do. "Professionally, I mean."

She takes a sudden interest in the way the fur on the top of Sammy's head curls, running her finger along the path of the cowlick. "I've been with a new family for a little under a year now. It's always hard to leave."

I offer a closed-lip smile and nod. "I figured. Worth a shot. It'll all work out."

She licks up the side of her cone to catch a drip, and my eyes dart away like I'm witnessing something I'm not supposed to. I clear my throat and shake the thought. "Thank you, by the way."

She smiles and holds out her hand. "Oh, of course."

"I'm L—"

"Babe!"

The guy who was once on the bench, so distracted that he missed our entire conversation, is now standing behind her with his hands on his hips. She looks over her shoulder at him, and he throws his arms open. "What are you doing?"

She spins back around and smiles shyly. "It was nice to meet you." She bends down and scratches my dog behind the ears. "You too, Sammy."

Then, without another word, she turns and walks away. I contemplate calling out to her.

You never told me your name.

But I don't.

For so many reasons.

"Let's go, Sammy," I say instead, turning back toward where we came from.

Sammy whimpers, pulling on his leash as he tries to follow her. "I know, buddy." I yank him toward me and he obeys, but every few feet he glances behind him.

And so do I.