Author: Kristan Higgins

“I suppose it’s the orthopedic trauma that everyone thinks is more glamorous,” Ryan continues, unaware of my rapidly dropping blood pressure. His voice takes on a slightly bitter note. “Obviously, I have to repair a hemorrhaging organ before the bone doctors can assess reattachment possibilities, right? Who cares if the femur is shattered if the patient’s spleen is gushing and we’re running out of blood?”

“God!” I blurt. “Okay, wow! That is impressive!” Wiping my clammy palms on my jeans, I push my plate back. “Listen, Ryan, I have to tell you, I’m a little squeamish about this kind of thing.”

He smiles kindly. “Most people are,” he says almost proudly. “Want to talk about something else?”

“Yes, please,” I breathe. He reaches across the table and takes my hand, which is clutching a roll.

“I like you, Chastity,” he says, grinning.

Nice to know my phobia is charming. Swallowing bile, I grin back. “Ditto.” He really is…well, he’s gorgeous, this guy. Nice, too. “So where did you grow up, Ryan?” I ask, extricating my hand and taking a bite of my roll.

“Long Island,” he says. “We started out in Huntington, but my parents now have a cottage in the Hamptons. East Hampton, to be precise. Quite pretty. You’ll love it.”

I probably will, but his statement gives me pause. You’ll love it when you come down to meet the family, and you will, won’t you, since I’m so fabulous. Stop it, Chastity. He’s perfectly nice. Get your panties out of the twist. He’s still talking, and I smile and nod and take a sip of water.

And then I hear something…something familiar, though too far away to identify. A quiver of foreboding buzzes through my legs. That sound in the distance affects me…or is about to.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Ryan, tipping my head toward the window.

“No,” he answers. “It’s pretty loud in here.”

I can’t quite make out the dark shape rounding the corner, but my sense of foreboding grows.

“What is it?” Ryan asks.

“I don’t…I’m not…oh, shit! Buttercup!”

“Aaaahhroooorooorooo!”

And yes, my dog is galloping—galloping!—her huge ears flapping, jowls rising and falling with each stride, enormous paws flopping gracelessly on the pavement as she runs—runs!—right down the middle of the street. This from a dog who has to be dragged to go outside!

And on her hindquarters, in order to prevent little drops of blood from spattering my house, is a pair of Matt’s bright white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Her tail, which is guided through the front slot of the briefs, whips back and forth. I sit frozen in horror as she careens onto the sidewalk right in front of Emo’s.

“Why is that doggie wearing underwear?” asks a little girl.

“Oh, my God!” I stand abruptly, bumping the table. Ryan’s water sloshes. “How did she get out? She’s never gotten out before! I told the boys—”

My precious puppy, all one hundred and twenty pounds of randy, menstruating she-dog, leaps up against the window, front paws leaving great muddy smears against the glass, baying with joy at having sniffed out her mistress. “Aahroorooroororooo!” she sings, head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Dear God,” Ryan says.

I stare open-mouthed. “Um…I think I’d better…that’s…that’s my dog.”

“Dear God,” Ryan says again.

I’m already weaving my way through the restaurant toward the bar. People are either laughing or frowning as Buttercup continues to serenade me. The maître d’ and two servers are pointing and talking.

“I’ll take care of this!” I tell them. “She’s mine. She must have tracked me here. She’s part bloodhound. She’s in heat.”

“Thanks for sharing,” the maître d’ says.

As I burst out of the restaurant, Buttercup decides she’s not ready for capture. She leaves the window, tail whipping, and trots away from me, boxers gleaming, and stops to sniff a tire.

“Buttercup…here girl!” I call, trying to sound relaxed and happy to see her.

Just then, a pickup truck comes around the corner. Matt’s behind the wheel, while Trevor leans out the window, calling my dog’s name. Both of them are contorted with laughter. Buttercup trots a few feet farther away. “Buttercup!” I croon. “Come on! Cookie! Salami! Want some salami? Huh, girl? Come on, Butterbaby!”

Ryan comes out of the restaurant. “What is she wearing?” he asks.

“My brother’s underwear. Um, let’s just try to catch her,” I say.

Matt pulls up to the curb and gets out, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, Chas. She escaped.”

“Yes, I got that.”

Trevor gets out, too, staggering, wheezing. “She found you,” he manages. “She loves her mommy.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “Don’t chase her. Just pretend you have a cookie or something.” Buttercup stops twenty feet ahead and stares at us suspiciously from her yellow eyes. Her tail wags tentatively, but her shoulders are tensed for flight, possibly for the first time in her young life. “Very slow, boys, very casual.”

“Roger that,” Matt says. “Come to Daddy, sweetheart.” We start creeping down the sidewalk. Quite a crowd has gathered at the window of the restaurant as people watch to see the capture.

“Butterbaby! Come on, honey!” I call. She sniffs the sidewalk and flops down, apparently done for the night. “I’m so sorry about this,” I say, glancing at Ryan. He’s staring in consternation at my dog.

“Not at all,” he murmurs insincerely.

“Who’s my pretty puppy?” Matt says, pretending to hold out a treat. “Do you want a cookie?” She lets him approach. Trev, Ryan and I hold back. Just as Matt reaches out to grab Buttercup’s collar, she twists away, lurches to her feet and makes a dash for freedom. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” She heads toward the three of us, then dodges out into the street.

“Grab her, Chas!” Matt yells, but my dog darts past me with surprising agility, past Ryan, past Trevor, who just misses her, and continues down the street. From behind her, I can see the red splotch of blood on Matt’s underwear.

“Holy crap!” I blurt, bursting into laughter. “Come on!” I start running. Buttercup is a half block ahead, and I’m laughing so hard it hurts. “Buttercup!” I call in between gasps. “Come to Mommy!”

Matt crosses the street to try to flush our dog toward me, but she’s too far ahead. Behind me, Trevor is staggering unhelpfully, laughing so hard he can barely remain upright. A passing car slows down, and Buttercup shifts to Matt’s side of the street, stopping to sniff a parking meter. Her big ears prick with sudden alertness, and I glance up ahead. “Shit! Catch her, Matt!” I yell.

Up ahead is a tiny Yorkshire terrier on a leash, being walked by a rather plump man.

“No, Buttercup!” Trevor calls. “You’ll kill him, girl!”

My laughter goes silent, tears streaming down my face. “Buttercup! Salami!” I manage, clapping my hands, trying to get my dog’s attention. It doesn’t work.

The Yorkie owner is peering into the window of an antiques shop and doesn’t seem to sense the imminent danger posed to his tiny dog.

“Mister! Hey, buddy!” Matt calls. “She’s in heat! Pick up your dog! Pick him up!”

Puzzled, the man obeys, just in time, then recoils when he sees Buttercup charging.

“Buttercup, no!” I shout.

“Aahroorooroororooo!” she bays, ignoring me. Intent on her would-be mate, she leaps against his owner.

“Aah!” he cries. “No, doggy! Bad doggy! Get down! No! Down!”

Trevor glances down the street and runs across, hauling Buttercup off the man and his hapless dog. Buttercup goes limp, glancing back balefully as Trevor drags her away from her true love.

“That dog should be leashed!” the Yorkie owner spits.

“You’re absolutely right. We’ll tell the owner as soon as we find him,” Trevor says, throwing me a grin. “Are you all right, sir?” He sticks out his hand. “Trevor Meade, Eaton Falls Fire.”

“I’m fine,” the man replies. “Thank you for stopping that hideous animal. Puffy, are you okay?” He drops a kiss on the Yorkie’s head and glares at me.

“Ma’am, you say you know this dog’s owner?” Trevor asks me with a conspiratorial wink.

I pause. “Um, yes. Yes, I do. My neighbor’s dog. Very naughty beast. Bad, Buttercup.”

“You tell those people there are leash laws in Eaton Falls,” Yorkie Man says.

“I certainly will,” I say. “You’re a disgrace, Buttercup. Your owners will be so ashamed.”

“Thanks for your help, ma’am,” Trevor says to me. I feel his smile right into my bone marrow.

“Come on, Puffy,” the man says, turning around and heading back from whence he came. “Poor Puffy. You were scared, weren’t you?”

“Scared isn’t the word I’d use,” Matt comments, joining Trev and me. He eyes the tiny dog, who twists and whines in his master’s arms, struggling to return to Buttercup. “Puffy had it covered.”

“Imagine their children.” Trevor laughs, kneeling to stroke my dog.

Ryan comes over to me and, to my surprise, puts his arm around my shoulders. In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten about him.

“Ryan! Hey, have you met my brother? This is Matt.” They shake hands.

“Sorry about this, Chas,” Matt says. “Lucky went out to call Tara, and your horny little dog dashed out.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “Makes for a memorable night, wouldn’t you say, Ryan?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan answers, and suddenly, I feel a rush of affection for him. After all, he was a great sport, wasn’t he? I take his hand in mine, and he smiles.

“You can get her back, right, boys?” I ask.

“Sure, Chas,” Trevor answers. “You kids have a nice night.”

AFTER A MUCH-NEEDED SECOND glass of wine back at Emo’s, Ryan asks me if I’d like to come back to his place. The surreal feeling of being with him returns as he opens the door to his condo. It’s a sleek, stylish place in a renovated mill building. The windows face upriver, away from the energy plant. Dark-stained wood floors gleam, the oriental carpet glows with jewel tones. A fireplace takes up an entire wall, and it’s all very modern and clean, just what you’d imagine for a surgeon.

“What a lovely place,” I say.

“Thank you,” Ryan says. “Can I take your jacket?” He does, then goes in the kitchen and opens a cabinet. “What kind of wine would you like, Chastity? I’ve got a very nice pinot, a gorgeous New Zealand chardonnay, some cabernet…”

“Oh, um, you pick,” I say. My heart is beating a little fast, and I swallow. The truth is, I’m nervous. I haven’t dated much, haven’t had a steady boyfriend in a while. Haven’t been back to a man’s place in an age. I wonder if all my parts still work.

There are some black-and-white photos on the wall, mostly of buildings, though one of a snowy field. “Did you take these pictures?” I ask.

“Oh, no. My decorator bought them. Glad you like them, though,” he says, handing me a glass of white. “Would you like to sit down?”

We sit on the sumptuous leather couch. Ryan picks up a remote control, pushes a button, and voilà! We have a fire. “Very nice,” I say, taking a sip of the wine.

He pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear and smiles. I smile back. My knees tingle. He moves a little closer. More tingling. His arm slides along the back of the couch, his hand moves to the back of my head. Then he leans in and kisses my neck, sending little shivers down my side.