Who Do You Love?

Book 3: Love in the City

by J.M. Bronston

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Young features editor Eugenia Shaw is thrilled to have a scoop on not one but two major stories for Lady Fair magazine. The last thing Gena expects is to fall in love—with a quirky looking Chinese Crested named Wiley. Or with the fellow Crested lover she keeps accidentally-on-purpose running into in Central Park . . . Unlike Gena’s ambitious and self-centered live-in boyfriend, Paul is a man who appreciates Wiley’s unconventional elegance. And the better they get to know each other, the more it appears that he appreciates Gena, too. Soon she can’t help noticing how much happier and more confident she is when they’re together. She’s even beginning to see a new Gena when she looks in the mirror. But will she be brave enough to rewrite her own next chapter? . . . Praise for A Cowboy’s Love “This sweet, modern cowboy tale is just the book you’re looking for!” – RT Book Reviews, 4.5 Stars Top Pick

Release date: December 26, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 226

Sample

Chapter One

Pouring rain. Middle of the night. Middle of the woods. Middle of goddamn nowhere. And now it felt like the car had a flat tire.

“Oh, damn!”

Nothing to do but get out and check.

Gena got a flashlight out of the glove compartment and slogged out into the mud.

And now this! Already hours late getting back to the city. Warren will be pissed. I’ll never hear the end of it.

She’d tried to call him after she left the cabin, but the place was so remote she couldn’t get a cell phone connection. She knew she shouldn’t have stayed as long as she did, but the woman had been so interesting, and her work so beautiful, she just got totally caught up in the interview and by the time she had everything she needed, it was already dark.

It’s my own fault. I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing…

She shined the light on the front left tire. Looked okay. With a steadying hand on the car’s hood, she got around to the tire on the right, and there didn’t seem to be a problem there either. By now she was totally drenched; the water was running down the back of her neck into the collar of her blazer. Her brand new Jimmy Choos were ruined and her pants were all muddied. “Oh, Lady Fair,” she said out loud. “What I go through for you.”

To keep from sliding in the mud, she had to hold on to the car doors as she got herself to the back of the car. Right rear tire looked okay. And, to her relief, so did the rear left tire.

Well, whatever it was, thank God I don’t have to be changing a tire in this mess.

Now all she had to do was get herself back to the highway and find a service station. At least she’d be able to call Warren and tell him not to worry. He’d be mad about her delay in getting back, but she could worry about that later. Now she just wanted to get out of the wet. Slipping and sliding, she got to the door, got hold of the handle, and pulled it open. But she didn’t get into the car right away. Because, through the racketing noise of the downpour through the trees, she heard something else. It was a kind of whimpering sound, high-pitched and urgent.

She paused. Gena was a city girl. Being alone in a dark forest was a little too much like being in a Grimm’s fairy tale. A whimpering sound in the night was not something she wanted to investigate. Especially when she was hours late getting home, in a pouring rain, with her clothes all ruined and sodden trees looming scary all around her.

But she also had been born with a powerful curiosity gene. It’s what had been getting her into trouble ever since she was a kid—and it was also what had made her a journalist. And maybe some little creature was in trouble. Gena was also a tender-hearted girl, which had also often gotten her into trouble. Even now, she didn’t stop to think that maybe it was a rabid raccoon or a bad-tempered coyote or an injured fox, something ready to bite whoever came too close.

She shined the light into the trees, along the mucky ground, and there, only steps away, was a small dog, half buried under drooping shrubbery and huddled up against a jutting tree root. In the flashlight’s beam it looked silvery, with sharp, pointy ears and a long pointy snout. The dog had no collar and was shivering miserably. And it was watching Gena with big brown eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing. You’re in even more trouble than I am.”

What could she do? Her jacket was already muddied, so she took it off as she ducked in among the branches, wrapped it around the dog, and lifted it out from under the dripping bushes. Back in the car, she put the dog on the seat next to her. It curled right up, facing her, with its eyes fastened on her as though it would talk to her.

“Well,” Gena said as she used a tissue to wipe rainwater off her face, “you don’t seem to know enough to come in out of the rain. Don’t you have a home?” She pulled down the sun visor to look in the mirror and check the damage. Her long, blonde hair was soaked, matted around her face, and had bits of leaves stuck in it. “God, I’m a mess.” She looked at the dog. “You don’t look too great yourself. I’d take you home so they could clean you up, but I have no idea where home is.” She hadn’t seen a single house after she’d left the cabin, and that was miles back along the road. There didn’t seem to be any practical solution. “I think you’re going to have to come with me. Maybe when we find a service station we can get us both cleaned up, and see if they have any ideas about what to do with you. And we’ll get you something to eat. You look so skinny.”

She started the engine, and as soon as they were in motion the dog laid its head down on its paws and got comfy. The car seemed to be okay, and Gena decided that what she’d thought was a flat tire was just the rutted road. “Maybe it was a divine providence,” she said to the dog, “that made me stop right where we could find each other.” The dog’s ear was twitching, so Gena knew it was listening. “I think you should know,” she said, “I’m not a dog person. There were no pets in my family. Dad was allergic and Mom was scared of animals. So don’t even think you’re coming home with me. Not that I wouldn’t be willing. That is, I guess I would. But I know my boyfriend wouldn’t agree to share our space with anyone. And if you think he’d be taking you out for walks or getting you to the vet when you’re sick, forget it. Warren Haglund is not exactly the nurturing type.”

The dog seemed unconcerned and was already doing what dogs do so well: it had closed its eyes and gone to sleep. It was apparently glad to be out of the rain. But Gena went on talking into the slapping of the windshield wipers, with the night and the rain out beyond.

“I never thought about it, really. But now that I am thinking about it, I know Warren would definitely not be wild with joy if I brought you home. He’s not that kind of man. He likes his comfort. Long as I’ve known him, long as we’ve been together—well, I do know how he is. He’d look at you, all wet and skinny and hungry, and he’d say, ‘You’d better find a home for that animal by morning, because we’re not having it around here.’”

She felt embarrassed as she said it, like if the dog woke up and heard her, its feelings would be hurt.

“You are pretty pathetic looking. How long have you been out there, all alone, no food, all wet and homeless? Cold and lonely. Don’t have a collar on you. Don’t even have a name.” The dog opened an eye and looked at her. “At least I should give you a name. Then you wouldn’t be so pathetic.” She glanced sideways. “And to think I was afraid you might be a coyote or a fox. Something dangerous. That’s a laugh. But still, with that sharp nose and those pointy ears, I guess coyote wouldn’t have been so far off. Like the cartoon guy, Wile E. Coyote. He’s such a sad character, maybe a little bit like you? Are you a wily coyote?” She thought a moment while the wipers went flip-flap, flip-flap. “That’s a good name for you. Wiley. That’s it. That’s your name. Wiley. I like that.”

The dog’s ears perked up and Gena decided the name was a success.

Half an hour later, out on the highway at last, she pulled onto the shoulder and got out her phone. Warren’s message was short.

Where r u? Don’t call

Going to bed now. U lost again?

“You’d think I make a habit of getting lost. Happened just once, just the one time. You’d think he’d get over it.” Wiley pricked up his pointy ears. Gena smiled at him. “Warren can be very critical. Don’t even get me started.” Wiley was apparently a sympathetic, though silent, listener. “Okay, Wiley. Let’s find a place where we can wash up and maybe get a sandwich or something. See if we can figure out what to do about you. Must be an all-night place open somewhere along the road.”

It was almost two a.m. before the lights of a service station appeared. There was hot coffee, a couple of roast beef sandwiches, and a chance to gas up the car. There was also, unfortunately, an empty-headed kid behind the counter who was no help in finding Wiley’s home. No, he said, there hadn’t been anyone around asking about a lost dog. And no, he didn’t know what to do about Wiley, but he sure wasn’t going to let her leave the dog with him. Maybe she could wait till morning, he said, and go to the nearest town, Shanesville, and find a vet or someone who’d take him. Or she could post notices around the city. Put an ad in the local paper?

She got back into the car. Wiley was fully awake now, and watching her closely. Was she going to have to put him out into the downpour? She couldn’t yet bring herself to do it. “At least I can see that you get some food first.” She unwrapped one of the sandwiches and broke off a piece. She held it out to him and was surprised by how daintily he took it from her fingertips. “Someone taught you good manners,” she said. She fed him the rest of the sandwich in pieces, then ate hers.

“And now, Wiley, the time has come.” She lifted him out of the jacket and he stood up on the seat. Earlier, when she’d wrapped him up, drenched and shivering in the dark, she hadn’t really had a good look at him. Now, uncovered, she really saw the dog she’d taken in out of the rain.

He was totally hairless! Absolutely the only hair on him was a bright tuft on his head, a set of unruly bangs that fell over his face. There was also a bit more at the end of his long, skinny tail, like a pale flag, and some more on his dainty paws. She’d never before seen a truly hairless animal, and he looked kind of spooky. His color was a beige so pale he was almost white, which explained why he had looked silvery in the light of her flashlight. His legs were very long for his small body and so skinny they looked breakable. He was as lean as a greyhound.

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Wiley,” Gena said, “but you’re a very odd looking animal.” She stroked the soft hair on his head and rubbed his pointed ears. He rested his head in her hand and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

It was still raining hard, and she looked out into the downpour.

“I can’t just put you outside here at this gas station, out in the rain and all alone, just hoping someone else would take you in. And that kid inside won’t let you stay there.”

There was nothing else to do.

“Tell you what, Wiley. You can come back to the city with me, and I’ll take you to a shelter or the ASPCA or some place. They’ll find a nice home for you.”

She started up the car, and an hour later she was pulling into the parking garage of her building on East Seventy-Third Street. It was almost four in the morning, and she was dead tired but she had to give Wiley a couple of minutes to walk around the nearest tree. Then she carried him in her arms through the lobby, with a smile and a nod to Alfie, the night man on the desk, and up the elevator to the forty-first floor. She got herself quietly into the apartment, took a pillow from the sofa, put it down on the kitchen floor, and laid Wiley onto it. He was asleep in a couple of seconds. She took only a little bit more than that to get out of her clothes, wash her face, brush her teeth, and fall into bed and into a sound, sweet sleep.

Warren never even stirred.

Chapter Two

“What the hell is that?”

Warren was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, pointing into the kitchen.

Gena stuck her head out from under the blankets. She’d had only a couple hours’ sleep, so she wasn’t prepared to deal with Warren, not just yet.

“What’s what?” she murmured.

“There’s an animal in the kitchen. Some kind of dog, I think.”

Her head was clearing, gradually. “It’s a long story.”

“Yeah. Well, I’d like to hear what he’s doing in our kitchen.”

“Give me a minute. I’m not awake yet.” She stumbled into the bathroom.

He followed her, waiting impatiently outside the bathroom door. “I thought you went up to Connecticut to do a story on some artist up there. How’d you wind up with a dog?” His tone was definitely accusatory. Like he’d caught her again doing something dumb.

She came out, drying her face. “I found him in the woods,” she said. “It was raining. Raining hard. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“He doesn’t even have a collar. Or a tag, or anything.”

“I know. That’s why I couldn’t find his owner.”

“So what were you planning to do with him?

“I’ll take him to a shelter or something. They’ll find a home for him.”

“He’s all muddy. Couldn’t you have cleaned him up before you put him to bed on one of our pillows?”

“Warren, I’d been driving for hours. I was wet. I was tired. I was just glad to get home. And you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“He doesn’t have any hair on him. He looks weird.”

“I know. I kind of like him.”

“You would.”

“Well, you won’t have to look at him. I’ll find a place for him.”

“Where will you take him?”

“I don’t know. The ASPCA maybe. Or the Humane Society. I’ll find a place.”

“Okay. In the meantime, could you clean him up a little? I don’t want him dirtying up our stuff.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll give him a lovely bath with suds and perfume and everything. Don’t worry. He won’t spoil our perfect home.”

“Don’t make that sarcastic face, honey. It doesn’t look pretty.” He pecked a small kiss on her mouth. “See you later. I’ve got a golf date.”

Chapter Three

She didn’t know much about animals. And Warren was pretty clear that he wasn’t going to give Wiley one minute of his attention, so he was no help. And anyway, he’d gone to play golf with his boss, so Gena was on her own. But she knew enough to know Wiley needed to be walked. She could improvise a collar and a leash with some string, but that seemed so pathetic. Like a homeless person, holding up his pants with a piece of rope.

She carried Wiley down to the doorman’s desk in the lobby. It was Saturday, so Seferino was on this morning. Sef was a sweet guy and she knew he’d help if he could.

“Sef, you sometimes walk dogs for people in this building. What are the chances you might have an extra collar and leash for this animal? I have to take him out and I don’t have either.”

“You have a dog now, Ms. Shaw? That’s nice.”

“He’s homeless. I found him. He’s just temporary.”

“Let me look.” He went into the package room, rummaged around for a minute, and appeared carrying a spare collar and leash. “Here you are, Ms. Shaw. Will this this do?”

“You’re a peach, Sef.” She slipped a couple of dollars into his hand. “You always come through. Thanks a bunch.”

The day was lovely: sunny and warm, with just that teeny bit of soft breeze that makes you glad you’re alive. And Gena was dressed perfectly for this perfect day. She’d left her long hair loose, and she was wearing comfy sandals and a little flowery sundress. “Warren doesn’t approve of this dress,” she said to Wiley as they walked out into the sunshine. “He says it’s too short.” It was true; Warren thought it was too short and that it didn’t sufficiently conceal her “beanpole” legs. But Warren was off with his boss and she could wear what she liked.

She walked with Wiley in the park, basked in the glorious day, nodded to other dog owners out with their pets, smiled at the professional dog walkers with their multiple charges on multiple leashes. She discovered a population of New Yorkers she’d never noticed before, a population of dog-walking, dog-owning, dog-loving people, and she felt as though she had inadvertently joined a club, as though her identity had been expanded just by having Wiley with her.

“See, Wiley?” she said to him, pointing to a family out with a fluffy, frisky little white dog. “You can have hundreds of friends here in New York.” She bought a hot dog from a vendor and sat down on a bench to eat it. She fed a bite to Wiley, who hadn’t had any breakfast. “I usually put sauerkraut on my hot dogs, but I wasn’t sure you’d like that.” Wiley was silent on the subject, which showed her he was an excellent listener, the kind who pays close attention to every word and doesn’t interrupt. On her way home, she bought a Good Humor ice cream and left enough on the stick for Wiley to finish. She wondered if ice cream and hot dogs were okay for dogs. “I hope I’m not making you sick,” she said to him. He had those wonderful brown eyes fastened on her, and she was sure he was telling her he was okay, that ice cream and hot dogs were fine with him.

On East Seventy-Second Street, just west of Lexington Avenue, they passed a brownstone building with a bronze plaque beside the front door. Funny, Gena thought. I’ve passed this building hundreds of times and never noticed this place before. The plaque read:

AARON ZWEIG, D.V.M

VETERINARY MEDICINE

open 24 hours, every day

Wiley was sniffing around the iron railing in front of the entrance. “What do you think?” she asked him. “Maybe instead of the Humane Society or the ASPCA—?”

Wiley offered no objection.

“Okay, let’s see what Dr. Zweig says.”

Dr. Zweig turned out to be big and burly, like a large bear. About sixty-five, she judged, with kindly brown eyes, a graying beard, and an easy smile. He was wearing a white coat and escorting a woman with a cat in a carrier to the front door. There was no one else in the waiting room.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Zweig said, holding the door open for her. “My receptionist ran out for a few minutes, so it’s just me. There’s paperwork she’d give you, . . .