Page 23 of How To Plot a Payback

I have to get to my meeting or she will be the reason I have to dig that list out and add another point.

I clench my fists and growl as I face the crowd head-on.

“Who wants a dog touched by Lavender Rhodes?” I call over the crowd.

It’s cheap.

I have no idea if they will be good dog owners.

But I once saw two caterers fired for a scuffle over a lipstick- and guacamole-stained napkin she left behind, so it’s a worthy thing to bet on.

And sure enough, ten minutes later every dog down to the one-eyed growler has found its way into the arms of fans anxiously taking selfies with their new “prized possessions.”

Several are already fondly calling the dogs by their new name: Lavender.

Or in the case of the exceptionally clever: Rhodes.

Moments later, Maggie and I are back inside, animal-free.

Sheer relief is in her voice. “Thank you so much . . .”

“Finn Masters.”

She looks like a different woman now without the emotional, and physical, baggage of ten dogs. She quite literally may have grown six inches.

She laughs with wide, impressionable eyes as she pulls a thick strand of hair from her cheek, tugging it behind her ear.

I grin. “It was nothing.”

“No, I believe nothing is what everyone else around here did,” she says, smoothing her dress as she inhales a sharp breath. “Really, Mr. Masters—”

“Finn,” I correct.

“Finn. Thank you,” she says softly.

And for just a moment, there’s a hint of interest in her speckled, honey-brown eyes that catches me by surprise.

Something that says there is a real possibility that were I to ask for her number right now, I wouldn’t get an automatic no.

But of course even I know Goodwin’s beloved young niece is not to be trifled with, no matter how legally available she is.

Still, the compliment in her eyes is a bright spot in an otherwise soggy start to the day.

“Well, Maggie, it’s my first day at Neighbors and I really have to be clocking in,” I say, stepping back. “But should you fall into the urgent task of releasing a hundred rare birds into the wild or purchasing two hundred espressos, you’ll know where to find me.”

“Right.” We share a small smile, then she drops her head with a nod. “Good luck in there. And will do.”

I’m panting by the time I halt before the words “NEIGHBORS Writers Room” in neat script on the royal-blue door.

Not merely panting but sucking in deep-until-my-ribs-press-against-my-button-up breaths that I try desperately to control as I put my hand on the knob.

Inhale.

My shirt is damp where the coffee spilled across my chest.

Exhale.

I’m missing a shoelace.