Trouble in Sudden Falls: A Sudden Falls Romance (22 page)

She smiled and nodded. “I’m on the decorating committee.”

“Who are you going with?”
Hello, Mr. Subtle.

She shrugged and then forced herself to meet his gaze. They stopped outside the cafeteria. “I guess the first person who asks.” He couldn’t swear to it, but she might have batted her eyelashes.

“Really.” He felt a grin land on his face. “Anyone? So by that statement, if the weird guy who’s always toting around the tuba were to ask you, you’d have to say yes.”

“I guess so. Although I doubt we’d match. What does a girl wear when her date wears a tuba?” she asked. There was a definite current of something—
flirting, maybe?
—in her voice.

“Strategically placed sheet music?” He enjoyed her blush even more as it darkened. “Your standards aren’t very high.”

“You could always change your mind about coming and save me from a date with possible riffraff.” She actually winked at him. “Or tuba-wearing weird guys, for that matter.”

Rogan chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone under the age of eighty ever use the word ‘riffraff’.”

Her smile faded and he could have kicked himself for teasing her. She was practically begging him to ask her out. She started to turn away and he spoke quickly.

“Well, Miss Goodman. I certainly wouldn’t want you to fall into the hands of any
riffraff
.” He winked back at her. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”

She gave him her thousand-watt smile and he basked in its glow. “Seven o’clock?”

“See you then.” Rogan headed off to his next class with considerably more spring in his step than he’d felt in a long time.

Amy walked home that day, alternating between complete bliss and total dejection.

Bliss, because Rogan, the object of all of her affection had asked her to the dance. Yeah, she gave him every opportunity to do so, but still… He was so cute. And nice. And smart. And…
everything.
She’d never felt like this about anyone before.

Dejection because her mother was going to hit the roof. Even though it was a school dance, she had a feeling getting her mother to agree to let her go was a one-in-a-million shot, and when she found out that she wanted to go with Rogan? She should probably forget it now. There was no way.

It wouldn’t stop her from trying, however. She glanced at her watch. She still had three hours before her mom got home. She could do two loads of laundry, run the vacuum, dust and clean the bathrooms in that time. She might even be able to get dinner on.

Reality set in and her hope fizzled out.

It would take a lot more than a few chores to soften her mother toward Rogan Lafayette.

Rogan smelled something funky when he stepped in the front door. He dropped his backpack and headed to the kitchen. When he got there, it took him a moment to realize what he was looking at. Trash had been strewn across the floor with wild abandon. Bits of aluminum foil from the Eli’s fridge clean-out the night before were scattered across the entirety of the floor. Fluffy, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

She tended to suffer immediate remorse after doing something she knew was bad dog behavior. “Fluffy,” he yelled. “Get in here!” No clicking of canine toenails on the floor. She was probably hiding under the bed.

He glanced at his watch and winced. Eli would be home any moment. He couldn’t let him see the mess. This on top of Eli’s allergies, and Fluffy would be a goner for sure. And if she went, so would Rogan.

He slid a new trash liner in the trash can, and pulled another one out to stuff the garbage on the floor into. He worked like a demon, beads of sweat trickling off his brow and down his back as he hurried to erase all evidence of his dog’s bad behavior. “You’re so gonna get it, mutt,” he hollered toward the stairs, knowing Fluffy knew as well as he did that he was completely bluffing.

Even after all the trash was re-secured in the garbage bag, the floor was evidence of what Eli would surely consider his dog’s felony. He pulled the mop from the cabinet by the fridge, wet it in the sink and scrubbed at the slop on the floor. He muttered a few more choice phases for the dog’s benefit, in case she was nearby, mopped up the last line of spaghetti sauce from near the stove, rinsed the mop and put it away. A quick inspection proved that he’d more or less destroyed all indications of the crime.

He looked around. It was odd that Fluffy hadn’t moped in, tail between her legs, contrite in the extreme. Guilt tended to make her “confess” pretty quickly. He poked his head into the living room and didn’t see any sign of her.

He ran upstairs and looked in his bedroom, feeling a bit more frantic. Where was she? Eli’s office was empty, and his bedroom door was closed. He thundered down the stairs. Finally, he found her in the rarely-used dining room, looking definitely
Not Good.
He watched her gag, but not actually barf. Again and again. However, she wasn’t able to actually throw up.

Her breathing was fast and hard. He’d never seen her look so awful. “Hey, baby. What’s the matter? Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?”

Fluffy whined and eased herself down to her side. Could she have food poisoning? He scratched her ears, surprised by the heat coming off them. Her nose was dry. Everybody knew a dry nose was a bad sign in a dog.

He knew he’d seen a vet’s office in town. It was on the way to the high school… where was it? After a second, he recalled that it was next door to Maddie’s store. “Come on, girl. We’ve got to go to the doctor.”

Fluffy lifted her head a couple of inches before letting it flop back down. Rogan got majorly freaked. He lifted her up, in spite of the fact that she half-heartedly snapped at him. “Get up, Fluffy.” He could hear the panic in his own voice, which caused it to multiply.

He managed to lift the dog up enough to ease her to her feet. Straddling her back, with his clasped hands under her breastbone to support her, he dragged her stubborn ass toward the front door. Fortunately, his car was right next to the sidewalk. He got the back door open as Fluffy tried to lie back down.

Rogan could feel the panic rise in his chest. He managed to stuff her in the back seat, then hopped into the driver’s seat, slid his key in the ignition and turned.

Nothing.

It was at that point, he almost started crying. A quick flash to what life would be like without his dog and he cranked it again. It made a few half-hearted clicks then silence.

Tears closed off his throat and trickled down his face. A knock on the window had him swiping his face before he looked up.

“What’s going on?” Eli asked.

Rogan opened the door as relief and trepidation flowed through him. “Fluffy got into the trash.” He barely forced the words through tight vocal chords. “I cleaned it up, but she’s really sick. She needs to go to the vet.” He glanced in the back seat to see his dog lying still, her tongue lolling out. “And the car won’t start.” Rogan sniffed, trying to hide the signs of the tears that were threatening to spill again.

Eli glanced into the back seat and then back at Rogan.

“Big dogs, when they eat too much or stuff they’re not supposed to sometimes get bloat—and it can kill them.” Rogan swallowed hard and waiting for a reaction—any reaction—from Eli.

Eli yanked open the back door. “Open the back of the Explorer.” Eli reached into the back seat for Fluffy. Rogan raced to the back of the SUV, lifted the back hatch and launched a gym bag from the floor of the truck into the back seat.

Eli lumbered into view, Fluffy a dead weight in his arms. He set her gently onto the floor of the SUV, confirmed her limbs were out of the way of the door, and pulled down the hatch, quietly clicking it into place.

“Hop in,” Eli said. “I’ll drive.”

Rogan jumped into the passenger seat and Eli pulled out of the drive before either of them were even completely buckled in.

Eli glanced over at Rogan and he turned his face away, unwilling to let his father see him cry. “It’s going to be okay. She’s going to be fine.”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even like her. You probably want her to die.” On some level, Rogan knew he was lashing out. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“I admit Fluffy wouldn’t have been my first choice in pets, but I know how much she means to you. That makes her part of the family, Rogan.”

Rogan sniffed and rubbed his face with the back of his fingers. The word “family” had not often been used in any sentence that included his name for so long—maybe ever—that it caught Rogan in a rare moment of speechlessness.

In a matter of moments, less than half the usual travel time, Eli screeched up to the vet’s office. He lifted Fluffy and carried her into the office as if she weighed very little. Rogan closed the lifthatch and followed.

In moments, the vet on duty, who happened to the be the blonde woman who came for dinner his first night in town came out. “Hi. I’m Dr. Chloe Tremont.” She looked up, evidently recognizing Eli from behind the dog. “Eli. I didn’t realize it was you.”

She had a kind smile and a calm tone, ushered them back to an examining room. Eli set Fluffy down on the stainless steel examining table while Rogan explained what had happened.

“Why don’t you guys have a seat out in the waiting room? We’re going to do a couple of x-rays and blood tests. I’ll start treating for bloat. Do you have any idea how long ago she overate?”

Rogan shrugged. “Not too long, I don’t think. There was leftover spaghetti sauce on the floor and it had barely started to dry.”

“Good observation.” Eli patted his shoulder.

“Definitely,” the vet agreed, nodding. “I’ll come out in a bit and let you know what we find. If we caught it in time, chances are, she won’t need surgery. If her stomach is twisted, she will.”

Oh, God. That would cost a fortune. He couldn’t afford to pay for surgery.

“Don’t worry, son,” kiddo vet said. “She’s in good hands.”

After giving Fluffy a “hang in there, girl” and scratch behind the ears, Rogan followed Eli back to the waiting area, his feet shuffling with dread.

Eli watched his son mope into a months-old copy of Newsweek, feeling helpless to do much of anything console him or to make things right. Why hadn’t he taken the trash out the night before? Or even asked Rogan to do it?

If Fluffy died, it would be his fault and Rogan would never forgive him. He filled two paper cups from the water cooler by the receptionist’s window and crossed the waiting room to sit next to Rogan. “Water?” He offered one of the cups to to him.

Rogan took the cup and sipped it absently. “This is all my fault,” Rogan said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw the trash there this morning. I should have taken it out.”

There was no way he’d let Rogan take the responsibility for this one onto his shoulders. “It’s no more your fault than mine. I should have taken it out last night. Let’s agree not to blame ourselves. It won’t do either of any good.”

Rogan shrugged neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He flipped another page in the magazine, clearly not reading anything he was looking at.

“How did you come by Fluffy, anyway?” Eli asked, looking for anything to take Rogan’s mind off what was happening behind the closed doors of Chloe’s office.