“Oh for cryin’ out loud!” He threw up his hands and headed straight for the door, pausing only to grab his jacket off the front counter. “I swear, this dog is going to be the death of me,” he mumbled.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing and followed, struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace as we made our way back to the pub. When we got there, the authors were out on the curb, loading into the large SUVs Bentley had rented for the week to shuttle them around town. A man on a mission, Matt elbowed his way through the crowd and into the pub with me on his heels.
To my surprise, Bentley was still there, sitting in a chair with the dog on her lap. Franklin and Flora were there, too, both of them fawning over Olive. “There you are, Olive,” Matt said, reaching down for the dog.
Bentley pulled Olive a little closer. “Aren’t you the man who owns the pet store?”
I stepped forward. “Matt, this is Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke, owner of Novel Idea Literary Agency. Bentley, Matt Reynolds.” I introduced Flora and Franklin, too, while I reached down and scratched between willing ears. “It seems Olive escaped from the store earlier. Matt’s been looking everywhere for her.”
Matt shot me an appreciative look and reached again for the dog. “I can take her now. Thank you for keeping her safe, Ms. Duke.”
“Bentley, please.” My boss smiled warmly at Matt but made no move to hand the dog over.
Matt dropped his hands and shuffled awkwardly. Flora and I exchanged a surprised look. This was the calmest we’d seen Bentley in almost a month. Even though we’d brought in a professional service to facilitate the wedding portion of Booked for a Wedding, there was still a lot of ground to cover just preparing for and managing the authors and their tasks. Not to mention that Bentley and Ms. Lambert, the coordinator from Southern Belles Bridal Company . . . Well, let’s just say there were one too many lionesses in the den. All this, plus the unexpected snow, made for a lot of stress. But watching Bentley now, nestling the sweet little fluff ball of a dog, you’d think she didn’t have a care in the world.
“You know,” Franklin, our nonfiction expert, said, “just last year, I signed on the most wonderful author. He wrote this book about how dogs improve our lives.” He adjusted the cashmere scarf tied around his neck. Franklin was the most senior agent at Novel Idea and a true southern gentleman at heart. I noticed that his normally fluffy gray hair was tamer than usual and his matching mustache neatly trimmed. He must have made a trip to the barber in preparation for this week’s events. “Just a marvelous book,” he continued. “And if I remember correctly, he’d cited many professionals who claim that owning a dog reduces stress. Even helps lower blood pressure.”
“That’s right,” Bentley concurred. “I remember that book. What was its title again?”
“Get a New Leash on Life,” Franklin said, tipping his chin up slightly. “A bestseller, of course.”
“Of course,” Bentley resounded.
“I completely agree with that theory,” Matt stated. “Except when it comes to Olive. You see, Olive is a handful, I’m afraid.”
“A handful?” Bentley narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? She seems perfect to me.”
“She usually does. It’s only after you get to know her that her true personality shines through. In fact, she’s been returned twice now.”
“Returned?” Bentley clutched Olive little tighter. “Whatever for?”
I eyed the pup, thinking about the chewed doorframe and the demolished fish tank. I knew why. Despite her sweet face and innocent brown eyes, this adorable little spaniel was a tornado of destruction.
Then I heard Bentley saying, “I think I’ll volunteer to be her foster mommy this week. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and if what Franklin says is true, this little pup will be good for me.”
Matt drew in a deep breath. “You might want to reconsider. Olive’s not at all the typical Cavalier King Charles spaniel. She’s needy, demands a lot of attention, and barks and whines when she doesn’t get her way.”
Bentley held the dog at arm’s length and stared into her deep brown eyes. “Well, I can see why she would. She knows she’s too adorable to be ignored or not get her way, don’t you think?”
No one answered. Flora and I looked at each other, both of us no doubt thinking the same thing: It seemed that Olive and Bentley had a lot in common.
Chapter 3
As soon as I opened the truck’s door Monday morning, I was affronted by a blast of heat and about a hundred decibels of Patsy Cline’s soulful voice. “Loud enough, Mama?” I asked, shoving aside a couple of full grocery bags and climbing into the passenger side of her 1970s turquoise pickup truck.
“What’s that, darlin’?” she shouted.
I reached over, turned down the radio, and settled back into the seat with a sigh. “Nothing. Good morning, Mama.”