He'd raced a beagle with a bursting bladder to get these wretched flowers, had barely succeeded in pulling the blooms out of harm’s way before the dog baptized them. Pity the hem of his pants hadn’t shared the same fortune. Since he’d arrived in this Long Island resort town ten days ago, his clothing had suffered untold disgrace. Jeez, how had he sunk so low so fast? Cricka-cricka-cricka! The Dumpster’s steel walls rattled at the howling gusts of a coming storm. Shivers racked him, and he yanked his thin jacket tighter to ward off the icy chill. He should have grabbed his shearling coat when he’d had the chance. Fat lot of good it did sitting in a closet in Manhattan, fifty miles away. So near and yet so far... Closing his eyes, he envisioned where he'd be right now if things hadn't gone so horribly wrong. Before a crackling fire, a snifter of Napoleon brandy on the table beside him. Maybe a soft head lying in his lap. Not a woman—a retriever or spaniel, perhaps—someone loyal, someone who wouldn’t run away the moment life got a little rocky.
