Chapter Nine
Garrett was the busiest dog rescuer she’d ever met.
The next day, they had maybe an hour or two together. They talked about nothing, laughed about a lot of things, and took Lola on a short walk around the property. Jessie had lunch with Molly and Dr. K and took Lola to Darcy’s grooming shop to give the dog a bath since she’d rolled in something disgusting, and spent some time with the trainees in the original class she’d met.
After that, she headed back to her bed-and-breakfast to catch up on work, start the outline for her story—which had way too many blanks—and make some calls.
Out of sheer boredom, she called her sister, which she knew in one minute had been a mistake. The baby was crying in the background, little Ashton was demanding attention, and Stephanie was frazzled because Mom wasn’t there yet to help her.
“What exactly are you doing down there again, Jessie?” Stephanie asked with that distracted voice that meant the question was more out of politeness than interest.
“A story on Garrett Kilcannon for ITAL. Remember him?”
“That boy you liked so much when you were little?”
Had she liked him that much that both Molly and Stephanie called her on it? And she wasn’t little at sixteen. “He’s had a really interesting life. Started a big dot-com company and now he rescues dogs.”
“Mmm. Sounds fascinat—Ashton, don’t even think about it.” She grunted. “I can’t believe Mom thought going to some church event today was more important than helping me on my nanny’s day off.”
Jessie closed her eyes. “Me neither.” Because nothing came before Stephanie, even after her storied career came to a screeching halt with an unexpected pregnancy. But she’d married Andrew, who was rich and kind and madly in love with her, and Mom, of course, continued her life of doting on her firstborn and tolerating her second.
“But you always did like it so much there at that big house,” Stephanie said, her signature note of condescension under the surface.
“I love it at that big house.” So much more than the little one she’d grown up in a few miles away. “In fact, I better get back over there and see if I can work on my story.”
Stephanie was happy to hang up, and the conversation left Jessie a little blue, so of course, she worked. She dug through some research and read any history of PetPic she could find archived on the Internet, and even spent a few hours reading about FriendGroup, the behemoth company that had swallowed Garrett’s much smaller one.
She landed on a profile of Jack Chamberlain, the colorful CEO, and wondered if he and Garrett had gotten along. Jack was out there, a ruggedly handsome Australian with a long blond ponytail and signature white T-shirt he wore no matter the occasion. He was listed as one of the world’s ten richest people, married to a stunning blonde named Claudia and father to a toddler who was an exact replica of her beautiful mom.
Was Garrett friends with those jetsetters? What was it like living in Seattle after being born and raised in North Carolina? Was the opportunity to build Waterford Farm the only reason he left Seattle? Or was there more to it?
Frustrated by the growing list of questions and dwindling time to get them answered, she vowed that she would glue herself to him tomorrow, no matter what.
The next day he was nowhere to be found at first, so Jessie spent some time with Lola, working with her and two of the trainers, then spotted Gramma Finnie sitting on the back porch of the house. Finnie would make an excellent interview, she decided. Colorful, opinionated, and her lilting brogue was music to the ears.
“C’mon, Lola, let’s go try and get some real work done around here.”
The older woman was tucked into a rattan chair, a sleek laptop open in front of her. They’d chatted briefly a few times over the past couple of days, but Gramma Finnie was in and out of Waterford Farm as much as the rest of them.
“Can I interrupt your work?” Jessie asked.
“Absolutely.” Her face crinkled into a smile, a bright light in eyes almost the exact color as Garrett’s. “I’m trying to get an idea for today’s blog. You have any?”
Jessie laughed. “I’m hoping you’re the one who will help me,” she said, knowing Gramma Finnie had been fully informed of why Jessie was there. “When did you start blogging?”
“About a year and a half ago, when Pru, Molly’s little lass, decided I needed to get with the twenty-first century.”
On the table, next to the laptop, Jessie spied a late-model iPhone. “Looks like she succeeded.”
Gramma beamed. “I have thousands of Twitter followers.”
Jessie threw her head back and laughed. “That’s extraordinary.”
“I’m @grammafinn. Follow me.”
“I sure will.” She took out her own phone to note the name.
“I could write about you,” Finnie said quickly.
“Well, that would be a switch. I’m afraid I’m not that interesting.”
“I think you’re fascinating,” she said. “One of those modern lasses who has no need for a man, just a high-powered career.”
Jessie searched her face, looking for a trace of mockery to go with the words, but saw none. “Yeah, it sort of worked out that way.”
“Life doesn’t simply work out, you know. You work it out. It’s your choice, I’m guessing. You’re certainly pretty enough to get any worthwhile man you’d like, right?”
Jessie smiled. “It hasn’t been a priority.”
“At thirty-three years old?” Finnie tsked. “Clock’s a-tickin’, child. There’s an old Irish saying that being a mother isn’t about what you give up, it’s about what you gain.”
Maybe no mockery, but a life lesson was certainly on the horizon. “I’m really focused on my career.”
“Bad childhood, then?”
Jessie choked softly. “You might have missed your calling, Gramma Finnie. If there’s a job open at ITAL, can we call you?”
She waved a crepe-paper-wrinkled hand, her shoulders moving in a laugh under a bright green cardigan. “Am I right, then?”
Jessie opened her mouth to argue, then shut it, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t have a good role model for motherhood, but I’m really very happy. I love my job, I make a good living, I have a big promotion on the horizon.”
Finnie nodded with every point Jessie made, as if she agreed. “You got something to prove, then.” It wasn’t a question.
Jessie looked at her for a long time, suddenly feeling very much like someone on the other side of a fence. “Maybe I do,” she admitted.
“I think I’ll write about that, then.” Finnie looked out to the land behind Jessie. “Look, there’s Garrett takin’ off in Rin Tin Tin. Not wearing his hat, so he’s not delivering a rescue. Although, we’d know that because it’s a big party when he does.”
Jessie turned to see an old, beat-up yellow Jeep she’d noticed around Waterford Farm and had already heard it referred to by the name of the famous dog.
“Where is he going now?” she murmured, standing up when she realized he was headed out, not in.
“Why don’t you go find out?” Finnie suggested. “Clock’s a-tickin’, I’d say.”
Jessie threw her a look, pretty sure Finnie still meant that biological clock, but her story clock was a-tickin’, too. “I think I will. Thanks, Finnie. Come on, Lola.”
The dog followed her as she darted down the steps, across the lawn, and then sprinted toward the driveway. “Garrett!” she called. “Wait!”
He hit the brakes as they came closer.
Breathless, she caught up with him, reaching the open driver’s side with Lola right beside her. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Greensboro.” He wore reflective aviator-style sunglasses that denied her any chance to see his eyes, only her own image with her hair wild from running, her cheeks flushed. “There’s some news about Lola’s owner.”
“You said I could go with you.”
“I said we’d see.”
“Yeah? Well, we saw.” She yanked the back door open. “Hop in, girl.”
“Jessie, you can’t—”
She started around the front of the Jeep, shooting him a look that dared him to run her over. Instantly, Lola started barking, three times, over and over, scampering from one side of the Jeep to the other in a low-grade panic that Jessie might be leaving.
“Don’t even think about taking her without me.” She got a hold of the passenger side door and pulled it open, and then climbed in.
He lowered those glasses, maybe to show her how ticked off he was, maybe to get a better look at her.
“Let’s go,” she said cheerily.
He stared at her, then the slowest, sexiest smile pulled at his lips. “I swear to God I’ve never met anyone like you.”
She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but she settled in, pulled on her seat belt, and dropped her head back, victorious.
* * *
Garrett wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—the fact that he let her come along, or the fact that he wanted her to come along.
He was tired of avoiding her, sick of making excuses, a little ashamed of himself for not keeping his end of the bargain when Lola was already a changed dog. And, son of a gun, Jessie looked pretty today. All bright-eyed and determined and like a girl who belonged on this farm, not in New York.
Truth was, he’d been looking for Jessie in the kennels and secretly thought he might invite her to come along on this trip.
“So is this the famous hat?” She turned around and grabbed the tan beast from where it was kept perched in the back.
“Don’t put it on,” he warned.
“Why? Is it dirty?”
“That’s the doggone hat. Literally.”
She turned it in her hand, and even from his seat, he could see how beat-up it was. “It’s very…Indiana Jones.”
“I’ve had it since I was a teenager.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “I vaguely recall seeing you in this, though it was in much better shape then.”
He snorted. “So was I.”
“Not really,” she said, giving his torso a quick look up and down. He fought a smile at the compliment.
“I got that hat the day I arranged my first rescue and took her to a new owner. My mom used to call it ‘Garrett’s doggone hat,’ and so that’s what it became. I only wear it when I’m taking a rescue to a new home, and on the way back, when Rin Tin Tin has taken one more happy pupper to its forever place. That’s why it’s the doggone hat, because the dog is gone.”
“Aww.” She pressed the brim to her chest. “That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Please tell me I can use that in my story.”
“Sure.” He threw her a grin. “Just don’t make me sound like a sap.”
She turned and put the hat back in its place, treating it with a newfound reverence that touched him. “Not a sap, I promise.” She looked around the Jeep again and then hard at him. “Though I have to say, this whole environment isn’t what I’d imagine for a former CEO of a high-flying Internet company.”
He shrugged. “It’s my life now, and I like it. A lot. And that is officially as deep as I’m going to get.”
“No, it’s not,” she sang playfully. “Why do you like your life so much?”
“Why?” How did a person answer a question that big? “’Cause I do?” he suggested.
She laughed and shook her head.
“Not good enough for you, is that it?” he guessed.
“Not even close.”
“Okay, okay.” He could do this. “I’m still an entrepreneur, which I define as someone who creates a business around a passion.” He threw her another look, a wary tease in his eyes. “Will that be enough for the interview?”
She rolled her eyes. “Look, I don’t have a pen, paper, recorder, or phone. We’re merely talking, okay?”
“So does that mean everything I say is off the record?”
“ITAL doesn’t put much stock in that saying. Everything a subject shares is fair game, and, honestly, that’s part of the reason for the website’s success.”
“And people wonder why we loathe the media.”
“It’s up to the writer to create boundaries, and that’s why it’s important for me to have a good amount of time with the subject of a profile. To create trust on both sides.” She hesitated a minute, then said, “You need to trust me.”
He didn’t answer, staring at the road ahead, feeling his jaw clench a little.
“Do you trust me?” When he didn’t answer, she said. “Lola does.”
Keep it light, he thought. Flirtatious. The way Shane would. “If I do,” he said with a teasing smile, “will you scratch my belly when I roll on my back?”
She laughed at the question and the way Lola nuzzled her shoulder, took a lick, then lay down. “No promises, but Lola trusts me, and you said yourself she doesn’t trust anyone.”
“I thought about that,” he said. “Dogs are excellent judges of character.”
“Then listen to Lola.”
“Not infallible judges of character, though.”
She turned a little, positioning herself so she could see him and Lola resting on the backseat. “So, what is it you’re so scared of revealing?”
He choked a laugh. “Do they teach you those trick questions in journalism school? Like, when did you stop beating your wife?”
“I’m asking a legit question. Is it a romance in your past? Some decision you made in business? An old hurt that’s never healed?”
Oh man. “Yes,” he finally said. “And you can stop right there with that line of questioning.”
The answer silenced her, enough that he actually felt bad for shooting her down.
“I don’t like to talk about myself,” he added.
“Not unusual,” she said. “Lots of people think talking about themselves shows a lack of humility. And some people are truly private.”
“That’s me,” he said. “And humility doesn’t matter to me. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.”
“Okay, then tell me something about yourself that’s not private at all. One of those things you’re proud of and would feel good if people knew about your past.”
He moaned a little. “That I hate shit like this?”
She inhaled and let out her breath on a loud sigh. “Garrett, we had a deal. I’d work with Lola, you’d talk to me. Lola is currently lounging in the back, on a road trip, well fed and walked. Have I not met my end of the bargain?”
She had. And he owed her something. Surely he had something that would work. He dug around, going as far back as he could. Way back. Childhood back.
“When I was little,” he said slowly, “I mean, really little, like six or seven, we had a French bulldog named Moses. He was fat and slow and old and stubborn and not really very smart.”
She let out a sigh that sounded a lot like Finally. Something real. She inched a bit closer, as if she could sniff out any traces of deep, dark emotion.
“I don’t even know how or why we had him,” he continued. “Maybe someone left him at my dad’s office and never picked him up.”
She let out a soft gasp. “People do that? Take a dog to the vet and forget to pick them up?”
“There’s no forgetting.”
She grunted under her breath.
“Yeah,” he said in agreement. “People do a lot of shitty things where dogs—any animal, I guess—are concerned. But, anyway, we had Moses. He wasn’t the star of the house, I can tell you.” He watched traffic for a moment, slipping into the left lane to power past an eighteen-wheeler, gathering his thoughts.
“We had goldens and Labs, of course, come and go through Mom’s foster care program. We sheltered pits and Rotties and shepherds. And when a new dog came to the house, one of us usually attached to it. Dogs usually have ‘their person’ in a family, and every time we’d get one, that relationship formed sort of organically. Then we were responsible for that dog’s care and playing with it, which my parents thought was very important.”
“I remember that about your family,” she said. “Molly had that basset named Sam that was always in bed with us during sleepovers.”
He chuckled, remembering that hound and what a crier he was. “Well, my brothers all wanted to claim and train and play with the big, tough dogs,” Garrett said. “When we had a cute puffball in, it went to Aidan and Darcy, because they were so young. Molly and I, the middle kids, got stuck with the in-betweens like Moses and Sam.”
She shifted in her seat, either getting comfortable or itching to reach for a notebook. He’d bet the latter. Either way, he had her full attention.
“I wasn’t happy about that,” he admitted. “I wanted a real boy’s dog, you know? I tried to shake Moses and let him stay at home without me so many times, but he’d waddle after me everywhere I went. Including…” He slowed and gave her a look to tell her he was getting to the meat of the story.
“Yeah?” she asked, all in.
“Including the day I decided to trek across to the other side of the lake and climb that big old sugar maple down there. Do you know the tree?”
“Oh yes.” He could hear the awe in her voice. “That tree is gorgeous. Especially in the fall.”
“I love that tree,” Garrett agreed. “It was there before my grandfather built the house, and it’s kind of considered sacred ground around Waterford. It’s out of sight of the house and pretty far off the beaten path. Easy to climb, too. We weren’t supposed to play there alone, but I thought if I went far enough, Moses would get tired, turn around, and go back to sleep in the yard, and I was sick of him and his big ol’ fat self.”
She laughed. “And you were all alone? None of your brothers were with you?”
“Shane and Liam were off playing Frisbee and running around with their big dogs,” he said, no hiding his ancient bitterness in the memory. “I was pissed. So I went alone to the tree, and you know that lake is big. You can’t see the other side, and you can’t hear anyone over there unless you go there. So off I went with that bowling ball that rolled after me, no matter what.”
She giggled softly at the description. “So, what happened?”
He paused, closed his eyes, and puffed out a breath of sheer self-disgust. “Of course I fell out of the freaking tree and broke my leg.”
“No.”
“God, it hurt.” He gave his head a shake, the memory of that pain still vivid. “And that damn dog stayed with me for almost two hours, pressing on the broken bone, which, I later found out, helped set it. I was crying so hard, I couldn’t even call out for help, not that anyone would have heard me.”
He could still remember the frantic panic, the pain, and the weight of Moses on his leg. “How did they find you?”
“Only because that fat, slow, old dog walked all the way back to the house and then led my mother to me.”
“Really?” Her voice rose. “Oh, that’s so sweet.”
“It was a total Lassie move.”
“It was,” she agreed. “So, that’s the moment you fell in love with dogs and they became your passion?”
“Nah. I was born loving dogs. I was probably licked by a dog before I was kissed by my own mother.”
“Then…that’s when French bulldogs became your favorite breed?”
He threw her a look. “Honest? They’re slow and chunky and don’t train that easily. You won’t find a lot of French bulldogs wearing service-dog jackets.” He lifted his hand. “Hold up for a sec. Do not put that in print. I don’t want the Legion of French Bulldog Lovers boycotting Waterford.”
“Is there one of those?”
“Probably.”
She dropped back on the seat, studying him. “Well, what’s the point of the story?”
“Does it have to have a point?” he asked, surprised at the question. “It’s a great story. A memory. A moment from my past. And you can use it in your profile, with, you know, some editing. That I get to see and approve.”
“But there’s no point to that story.”
He thought for a moment. “Old, fat, slow dogs have heart, too? No, I’m kidding. That’s off the record. What do I have to do to convince you not to print that?”
“How about you give me a real glimpse into your past, one with heart and meaning that set you on your journey and inspired you to success and captures who you are as a person who is unlike any other person on earth?”
He moved into the lane for the exit, slowing the Jeep a little. “You’re going to have to make that up.”
“I’m not going to make up a story about you!”
“Sorry, Moses is the best I got. I thought you’d eat that up with a spoon. Start your story with it.” He drew an imaginary headline in the air. “Life-saving act sets Garrett Kilcannon on the road to ownership of a world-class dog training and rescue facility.”
“Not exactly what I was thinking,” she said with a wry laugh. “So whatever happened to Moses?”
“He died.”
“Oh.”
He glanced at her. “Dogs die, Jessie. It hurts every time, but if they were given a lifetime of love every day they were alive, then…” He lifted a shoulder. “Look, I’m not cavalier about it, believe me. I cry when a dog dies. We have family ceremonies and toast the memory and share what we loved about every dog who ever crosses that bridge. But I’ve been around a hundred dogs in my lifetime, and they do die. But while they’re here, they beat humans by a mile.”
“You really prefer dogs to humans?”
He took the exit, rumbling toward the road into town. “Mostly. Except my family.”
“Okay, so I have to ask. I mean, I know you said not to, but it’s the automatic next question.”
He didn’t answer, braced for what had to be coming.
“Haven’t you ever been so in love with a person that they topped any dog you ever had?”
He stopped at a light and turned to meet her direct gaze. “No.”
“No, you haven’t, or no, you won’t answer?”
“Just…no.”
And from the look on her face when he slammed that door, he hadn’t done anything to stop the questions. She’d keep searching for the key, and he’d keep working to keep the door locked.
He had to. He’d made a promise, and he wouldn’t break it.
Of course, he’d made a promise to Jessie, too. He just wished the Moses story would be enough to satisfy her. He should have known better.