Feliz Naughty Dog - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,44
sat up, excited, then took off her glasses—the good ones that weren’t crooked. “Here. You’ll need to borrow these.”
Agnes slid them on and smoothed the page to read what Aldo Fiore had written.
When you’re ready for romance, call me. I promise I’ll be in the garden and not in jail. Aldo
She read the words again and again, soaking them up. “What does this mean?” she whispered.
Finnie snorted a laugh. “It means he is forgiving, romantic, patient, and has a sense of humor.”
That made Agnes smile.
“It also means he’ll make a very nice boyfriend…if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Agnes admitted, fanning herself with the paper. “But I don’t hate the idea of finding out.” She turned and looked down at Finnie. “As long as you know that you can never, ever be replaced.”
“I know.” Finnie patted her arm and jutted her chin toward the door as Pru and Lucas, hand in hand, stepped outside into the chilly night where the very first snowflakes danced in the beam of the porch light. “But I do believe the Dogmothers are about to see a little less of that lass in the coming days.”
When they disappeared out the door, at least half of the family turned to Finnie and Agnes with wide eyes and questioning looks, none more intense than Molly’s and Trace’s.
“What exactly happened at that mall today?” Molly asked them.
“You saw the news report, lass,” Finnie said.
Trace put his arm around Molly. “And we just saw our daughter holding hands with a boy.”
“A very nice boy,” Agnes said. “With a good heart.”
“He does seem nice,” Molly agreed. “But…”
“Don’t judge him by his looks,” Finnie warned, pointing a playful finger at Trace. “If we’d have been counting tattoos instead of your fine qualities, lad, would you even be standing here today?”
Over the laughter, Trace conceded that with a tip of his head. “You’re right, Gramma. But she’s so young.”
“And has her head on straighter than some people three times her age,” Agnes said. “Let her have a little fun, Dad.”
“We are,” Molly assured them. “We were just wondering how this happened.”
Finnie and Agnes high-fived. “Well, we are the Dogmothers.”
As the family reacted with laughter and rolled eyes, Agnes turned to look out the window, past a candle, to where Pru and Lucas stood on the covered patio, facing each other as Lucas helped her slide into his leather jacket.
Watching them for a moment, she leaned in to whisper to Finnie, “I wonder if they know they’re under the mistletoe.”
* * *
Pru snuggled into the butter-soft leather, the smell already deeply embedded in her memory bank, where she’d surely call it up many nights so she could remember this one. She looked up at Lucas, finally used to the insane thrill that being this close to him sent over her whole body.
“So, now you’ve met them all. The Kilcannons, Mahoneys, and Santorinis,” she said. “That’s my crew.”
“And the Bancrofts,” he added.
“Oh, yeah. I always forget we have a different last name.”
“Your dad is so cool. I loved the way he handled Tor when we took him into the kennel.”
“I told you, he’s amazing with dogs. He could make Tor a therapy dog.”
“He already is,” Lucas said, glancing toward the kennels. “Helped heal me, mostly.”
Pru smiled, rubbing the leather. “And now he’s the most famous dog in Vestal Valley County,” she said, studying Lucas’s face for a minute, not even trying to hide how much she liked to look at it. After all, he was kind of looking at her the exact same way.
“What is it?” she asked on a laugh when the mutual studying seemed to go on a few seconds past comfortable.
“I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“How come you didn’t have a bunch of friends to go RACKing with today. You’re pretty popular, and I’m surprised a girl like you ended up alone.”
She was getting used to the fact that he’d been noticing her since he’d arrived at Bitter Bark High, but the idea still gave her a little shiver of satisfaction.
“They have boyfriends,” she said simply, “and decided to spend the day with them.”
“But you don’t?”
She bit her lip, eyeing him, remembering what he’d said to the reporter when she’d asked if Pru was his girlfriend. Not yet. “No,” she said softly. “Wanna know the truth?”
“Always.”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I’ve never been—”
“Pru.” The door burst open, and her mom was there, holding out Pru’s phone. “Your phone’s blowing up. Do you want it?”
She wasn’t sure if