Page 10 of Wag More Bark Less

“There’s an active squirrel in the backyard,” I finally said.

She lifted a brow, half bent to grab a suitcase. “As opposed to an inactive squirrel?”

I couldn’t do anything but stare, suddenly very aware that if I dropped my gaze a quarter of an inch I’d be staring down the dip of her tight shirt beneath her flannel.

Maggie shook her head, probably assuming I didn’t get the joke, and threaded a hand through a suitcase handle. She glanced back at me as she said, “She doesn’t care about squirrels.”

Before I could question this, my phone pinged, the sound reserved for my dispatcher.

“Popular guy,” Maggie said, her tone flat but an eyebrow still raised. There was a sparkle in those baby blues that screamed mischief. I doubled down on my silent resolve to keep my distance. Just as soon as I got my fucking boots off her porch. I had enough on my messy plate without inviting trouble on top of the heap.

“I am on duty,” I pointed out.

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you have a call?” Maggie nodded at the phone in my hand.

Shit. I wasn’t moving. “Make sure you keep a leash on your dog.”

The sparkle vanished from her expression, and Maggie’s lips pressed into a straight line. “Ten-four, Officer.”

With those curt words, she shut the door in my face.

FOUR

MAGGIE

I hadn’t considered that a princess-style gown could be used as a murder weapon until I tripped face-first into the world’s smallest closet, inhaling a mouthful of silky fabric. If I ever went through with a wedding someday far off in the distant future, I vowed to choose a dress with less tulle. Maybe no tulle at all.

“You know how your sister is,” Mom said through the speakerphone resting on the nightstand, oblivious to the fact I was ten feet away from it and fighting for my life.

Not her fault, considering she had no clue I took the dress with me when I left Washington. I wasn’t about to tell her now. How could I explain packing a wedding dress my ex-mother-in-law-to-be accidentally destroyed?

The dress was beyond repair. No less than three seamstresses had made that abundantly clear. Still, throwing it in the dumpster seemed . . . wrong. And leaving it wadded up in the back of my Forester was definitely out of the question since Officer McGrumpy went all judgmental detective at the sight of it.

A shiver zipped through my body, and I silently cursed. The tall, built-like-a-linebacker pain-in-the-ass man would be annoyingly attractive. The kind of attractive that prompted a sane woman to make stupid and irrational decisions.

Thankfully, that hypercritical gleam in his light blue eyes when he caught sight of the wedding dress was better than a bucket of cold ice water. I bet the lug already had my entire story decided, and none of it would be accurate. But Luke Mason didn’t seem the type to care about the truth, and that made it easier to dislike him.

For now, the dress was best stashed away in the closet of the smaller bedroom I planned to use for storage during my stay. Out of sight, out of mind.

Or so I hoped.

I’d decide what to do with the garment before I left Bluebell Springs, almost a month from now. No way I could bring it back to Michigan with me. I wouldn’t allow Mom or Violet to see what had become of it. It would break their hearts.

But first, I had to get the damn closet door to close. Who knew tulle expanded like spray foam when stuffed into tight spaces? It should really come with a warning label.

“Maggie, are you there?” Mom asked as I shoved my hands against the wall at the back of the closet, palms slipping on silk as I scrambled for purchase. “Are you driving through a dead spot?” The pitch and panic rose in her voice. “Are you in the mountains? Hello? Maggie? Maggie?”

“I’m not driving,” I called back once I managed to wrestle free of the suffocating fabric. Ironic, considering who I almost married. If I was ever brave enough—or stupid enough, really—to consider marriage again someday far, far away, I’d wear something comfortable and loose. Hell, maybe I’d wear pants.

“You’re there, then?” Mom said, a mixture of relief and resignation in her tone as I tugged the rolling closet door closed by the glass knob. It caught in the track, of course, so I yanked harder. “In Colorado?”

The knob dropped to the hardwood floor and cracked in two.

Dammit.