“Budweiser,” she’d said, blushing, after checking around her to make sure no one could hear. And it worked, the fourth or fifth time she said it, when she’d finally injected some steel into her voice. Bluebell had licked her hand sadly before slinking over to her bed and flopping down. But Larissa couldn’t have been more than five hundred yards down the path along cliffs rising above the ocean when she heard a joyful yelp: Bluebell had released herself from self-imposed jail and was bounding along behind her. Larissa sighed and crouched down, petting the dog’s silky ears and shaking her paw, which was offered with great sincerity. Why did the dog like her, anyway? Where was her sense of loyalty to her owner, her intuitive urge to protect him from danger? Because surely Larissa represented a danger to Tommy. She was nothing but trouble. An entrepreneur with no head for business; a would-be people person with no skill at making people like her. If she stuck around his place much longer, her bad luck would probably start to invade the charming cottage and the life he’d carved out for himself.
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