Knock Me for a Loop Read online

  The good times, when she’d loved touching him and thought they were going to live happily ever after.

  Then they’d gone to his appointment, and her determination to exit stage left at the first opportunity had taken yet another hit. According to the doctor, Zack’s recent sloth hadn’t caused any additional damage to his injured knee, but he hadn’t done himself any favors, either. He was behind on his physical therapy, and it was going to take weeks, possibly months, of intense effort to get him back up to speed. To undo the atrophy and buildup of scar tissue his couch potato habits had created.

  The surgeon had given her a stack of papers outlining exercises Zack could do at home…and that she could help him with. And his receptionist had set up a physical therapy schedule at a nearby sports medicine and rehabilitation facility on Grace’s promise that she would see he attended every single session.

  Apparently, they’d gone through all of this with Zack once before, and had very little faith he’d follow through this time, either. Grace’s presence, though, had encouraged them to give him another chance.

  A couple of the nurses had watched them like a cat eyeing a goldfish bowl, and she had no doubt that as soon as they’d left, the gossip had begun.

  Were Zack “Hot Legs” Hoolihan and “Amazing” Grace Fisher back together? Had he really cheated on her, and if so, had she forgiven him?

  If she weren’t so busy packing, she would take a good ten or fifteen minutes to bang her head against the wall and wonder why, why, why her? And how, how, how did she get herself into these things?

  But then, she knew how and why, didn’t she? Because she had two fickle, devious friends with no compunction about throwing her to the wolves. Or at least in the general vicinity of the wolf.

  Grabbing the phone from the bedside table, she continued pulling bras and underwear, socks, slacks, and tops from her drawers and stuffing them into an overnight bag with one hand while dialing Ronnie’s number with the other. The call went to voice mail, but she didn’t let that put a damper on her plans.

  “Hey, Ronnie, it’s Grace. Just wanted to let you know that Zack’s appointment went well. He has a lot of catching up to do with therapy and the like before he gets full use of his leg back, but the doctor is optimistic. Of course, someone needs to be there to make sure he gets to all of his appointments and does all of his at-home exercises. And who do you think that person might be, hmm? That’s right—me! So I just called to thank you”—she laced the words with so much disdain, the plastic phone shell nearly melted around her hand—”for getting me into this. And to warn you that if I end up killing Zack, I’ll expect you to bail me out of jail. Or if Zack kills me, I’ll expect you to cry at my funeral. Really hard. We’re talking full-out, inhale-your-tissue, on-the-verge-of-collapse sobbing, complete with a guilt-induced mental breakdown afterward, got it?”

  With that, she hung up and punched in Jenna’s number, leaving much the same message on her voice mail as she moved into the bathroom to collect toiletries.

  Nice to know that her two supposed best friends were unavailable while she was in the middle of a crisis. She would definitely remember this the next time one of them needed something—like a kidney transplant or ride to the airport. As far as she was concerned, unless Jenna and Ronnie found a way to redeem themselves and make her life less of a nightmare right quick, both her car and her kidneys were officially off-limits.

  Once she had everything she thought she might need for the next few days, she zipped the overnight bag, returned the phone to its charger, and headed into the living room.

  Muffin was stretched out full-length along the couch, snoring gently and leaving a waffle-sized wet spot beneath his right jowl.

  “Hey, Muffin! Come here, sweetie.”

  The giant brown and white Saint Bernard first perked up one ear, then slowly lifted his head. Grace slapped her thigh, and Muffin heaved himself into a sitting position, then dropped his two massive front paws to the carpeted floor, letting his back legs slide off the sofa cushions as he started in her direction.

  Poor Muffin might be a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, but none of it was particularly energetic. Sometimes she thought she could just buy a beanbag chair, stick it in the corner, and get the same amount of activity as she did with Zack’s former dog. But then, a beanbag chair wouldn’t lick her face, keep her warm on cold winter nights, or inhale leftovers so she didn’t have to eat them herself.

  “Good boy.” Kneeling down so they were eye to eye, she hugged Muffin’s neck and gave his furry cheek a big kiss. He returned the gesture with a slobbery lick of her ear.

  She giggled at the tickle his tongue caused, then quickly lifted a hand to check her earrings. She’d learned the hard way that kibble and leftovers weren’t the only thing Muffin was fond of eating—and that it was not only zero fun, but a thousand percent disgusting to search through Saint Bernard droppings for a missing two-carat diamond stud. Yerk.

  “We’re taking a trip, baby,” she informed the panting ball of fur. “Now, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. We aren’t going to the park or the lake.”

  Two of his very favorite destinations. One because there were usually other dogs for him to either play with or terrorize, the other because he loved to pretend he was a fish, then climb out and shake half of Lake Erie onto the shore.

  Another Muffin-related lesson she’d figured out the hard way—never stand within six feet of a wet Saint Bernard. And never wear anything even remotely considered “nice clothes” while taking one for a walk.

  There was now a section of Grace’s closet dedicated to Muffin-wear. Grungy jeans and T-shirts, shoes and jackets that could be tossed in the washer or thrown in the trash, depending on the amount of canine destruction leveled upon them.

  “You’ll remember this place, though,” she continued, reaching for a pale pink doggie sweater and fitting it over Muffin’s head. She’d knit it herself—along with several more in varying colors—because there was nothing more harsh than Cleveland in winter, and she didn’t want her sweet little boy getting chilly.

  Never mind that Saint Bernards were cold-weather dogs. The ones that searched out missing hikers in ten feet of snow and brought them brandy in those cute miniature barrels around their necks. Those kinds of endeavors might be fine for other people’s dogs, but not for hers.

  “Lift,” she said, and Muffin obediently raised his right front paw, letting her slip on one of the four hand-knit slippers that matched his adorable sweater.

  “We’re going back to your daddy’s apartment,” she said as she helped him step into the remaining three slippers, “but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s okay if you love him and play with him and let him rub your belly, but we won’t be staying forever, so don’t get too used to having him around. We’re only going over there at all because your daddy is a big, fat idiot who can’t get himself to the doctor to get his leg fixed. So we have to cook for him and clean for him and haul his…butt around until he’s back on his feet.”

  Next she circled his neck with a collar about an inch wide and studded with sparkling faux diamonds that spelled out his name in fancy, flirty script. “You’ll help me do that, won’t you? Won’t you, my big boy?”

  In response, Muffin’s tongue lolled out to sweep a damp path up the full length of her face. A year ago, something like that would have sent her into a tizzy. She’d have bitched at Zack about his disgusting, slobbery dog, then raced to the bathroom to fix her makeup.

  Now…well, a little puppy saliva and streaked mascara just didn’t register on her diva-o-meter anymore. She had more important things to think about. Not to mention a deep and abiding love for the source of that slobber.

  “All right,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Are you ready?”

  Muffin wagged his tail, not just ready, but raring to go. He loved walks, even in the dead of winter. Loved it even more when Grace put on her sweats and took him running.

  Alas, there would b
e no running today. Not unless Zack drove her crazy within the first ten minutes of their forced recohabitation and she ran screaming from his apartment. In that case, though, she probably wouldn’t just be jogging with the dog, but racing for the nearest intersection to throw herself in front of a bus.

  Clicking a turquoise leash with black paw prints along its length to Muffin’s collar, she shrugged into her own long, bone-colored woolen coat, picked up her overnight bag, and said, “Let’s go, then.”

  Zack was slouched on the sofa with his leg propped up on the coffee table, slowly working on more afghan squares and watching One Life to Live when he heard a key turning in the lock of the front door.

  At first he froze, wondering who it could be. Then he remembered that no matter who might be breaking in or letting themselves into his apartment in the middle of the afternoon, he didn’t want them to catch him knitting. So he stuffed his needles and yarn down between the cushions of the couch, making sure everything was completely hidden before folding his arms over his chest, tucking his chin, and staring at the television screen as though that’s all he’d been doing since Grace dropped him off and left him to his own devices a few hours before.

  A second later, the door burst open and a blur of pink and brown and white filled his peripheral vision. He turned his head to get a better look and found the brown and pink portion of the blur barreling toward him.

  The blur barked, and he had a moment to breathe “Bruiser” in disbelief before it launched itself at him. A hundred and fifty pounds hitting him square in the chest didn’t feel great, but even the twist to his leg as he braced to absorb the impact was worth it to have his face bathed in sloppy kisses.

  God, he’d missed this damn dog, he thought as he ruffled the Saint’s fur and tried not to drown in doggie drool.

  He pretended he didn’t; acted like it hadn’t bothered him when Grace ran off with Bruiser and refused to give him back. Hey, not having a dog around, depending on him for food and walks, was a good thing, right? Gave him more time to stay out rousing and carousing.

  Except that he didn’t stay out till all hours rousing and carousing. He’d fucked up his knee five ways from Sunday, which left him stuck in his apartment twenty-four hours a day, with no one to keep him company but fictitious television characters.

  He sure could have used a little canine companionship this past month, that was for sure.

  “Bruiser,” he said again. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

  Bruiser barked again, then turned himself around and plopped his behind on the cushion next to Zack, tail thumping methodically against the leather.

  Zack ran his hand down the dog’s back, finally noticing that his dog…his big, meaty, male dog …was dressed in some frilly pink froufrou outfit, complete with diamond-studded collar and—Good God, were those booties on his feet?

  “What the hell are you wearing?” he asked aloud, the very sight an offense to his masculine sensibilities.

  “That’s his pink sweater-and-slipper set. Do you like it?”

  Zack craned his neck to glance over the back of the sofa. Grace stood on just this side of the kitchen, her hands resting lightly on her slim hips, an innocent smile playing along her lips.

  Any other time, he might have taken note that she’d changed from her earlier running outfit into a pair of snug, low-cut jeans and short-waisted, long-sleeved cotton top in olive green that hugged her spectacular figure in all the right places.

  Any other time. But at the moment, the only thing he could focus on was the fact that…

  “He’s wearing pink, for Christ’s sake.”

  “So? It’s my favorite color, he likes them, and they keep him warm in the winter.”

  A couple reusable canvas totes sat on the counter behind her, and she turned to begin removing items. Groceries, he saw, as she moved around putting things in the cupboards and refrigerator. Healthy groceries, like juice and bananas and salad fixings.

  Great.

  “He’s a Saint Bernard. He doesn’t need to be kept warm during the winter. His job is to keep others warm during the winter.”

  She shook her head, sending her loose blond hair swishing around her face as she reached up to slide a box of crackers onto a top shelf. The motion lifted her shirt and flashed him a luscious strip of pale bare skin. For a moment, his mouth went dry and his eyes locked on her midriff.

  “That’s a barbaric way to think about such a sweet baby,” she corrected him. “Besides, the salt and gravel used to treat icy streets and sidewalks is horrible for the pads of animals’ feet. It burns and cuts and can cause real damage. You wouldn’t want Muffin to get hurt just going on walkies, would you?”

  When Grace lowered herself from on tiptoe and her shirt fell back into place, Zack’s brain seemed to start functioning again. He replayed what he thought he’d heard her say and blinked. Once, twice, again.

  He wasn’t sure what was tripping him up more. Her referring to Bruiser as a sweet baby when she never used to have a kind word to say about him; the fact that she’d mistakenly called him “Muffin”; or her use of the term walkies.

  None of it sounded like the Grace he used to know, and he found himself replaying the words over and over in his mind, trying to decide where his side of the argument should start.

  Zack faced forward again to keep from getting a kink in his neck, and Bruiser laid his head on his thigh, giving a soft snuffle that caused the big flaps of his upper lips to flutter.

  “First of all, his name is Bruiser, not Muffin,” he called over his shoulder while he rubbed the dog’s head, deciding to address her points from most to least important.

  “Second, his feet and every other part of him were just fine when I had him and was taking him out for walks.” He stressed the word walks just slightly to let her know no respectable parent of a Saint Bernard called them “walkies.”

  “And third, what the hell happened? You used to hate my dog.”

  Coming away from the kitchen, Grace rounded the couch from the side farthest from him and sat down on the other end of Bruiser’s long, stretched-out pile of fur. Her hands automatically went to the dog’s nearest foot and removed one of the pink booties.

  “First,” she said, moving to the next, “his name used to be Bruiser. Now it’s Muffin. Second, just because he never required medical attention after you took him for winter walkies doesn’t mean you were taking proper care of his paws. Do you have any idea how many moisturizing treatments it took to get rid of his sandpaper skin?”

  All four booties were off now and piled on the coffee table, so she reached forward to unbutton the straps that ran under Bruiser’s belly to loosen and remove the pussy-pink sweater entirely.

  That was something he hadn’t tried yet with his knitting—buttonholes. Maybe he should find a pattern and make a dog sweater of his own for Bruiser in a color that wouldn’t turn his dog gay. Green or black or gray. Or maybe Rockets blue and red. Now that would be a manly dog sweater!

  After folding the girlie pink sweater and laying it beside the even more girlie booties, Grace leaned back and ran the long, manicured fingers of her left hand through Bruiser’s thick brown fur. She didn’t even seem to mind that hair was getting on her clothes, something that would have annoyed her to no end a year or so ago.

  “And third,” she continued, “I never hated Muffin, I just didn’t understand him. Now I realize what a sweet boy he is, so don’t get any ideas about keeping him at the end of this …” She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “Whatever this is. I’m here to help you get around and recover from your injury, but after that, I’m going home and I’m taking my dog with me.”

  “He’s my dog,” Zack retaliated, “and you damn well know it. I had him before we even met. I have the adoption papers to prove it. You stole him from me when you got your panties in a twist, and are lucky I didn’t decide to call the cops and have your butt tossed in jail.”

  Over a now snoring Saint Bernard, her eyes narrowed
and he noticed the almost imperceptible fisting of her hand in the dog’s thick coat.

  “Do you really want to go there, Zack?” she asked quietly.

  He knew from experience that the low tone of her voice was deceptive. It was like the calm before the storm, and if he answered incorrectly…if he decided that he did, indeed, want to “go there”…then he could very well be in for the fight of his life.

  And in fact, he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to dredge up the tired old infidelity argument. He didn’t want to hear any more of her accusations or waste his breath denying them. Whatever she believed, he wasn’t going to change her mind at this late date. Better to let the subject drop, at least for now.

  He had time. It wasn’t like he could jump up and run off with his dog, even if he wanted to. Not with his knee in this kind of shape.

  But if Grace was going to be around for a while, and Bruiser was going to be with her, then there was a chance he could come up with some sort of wicked, devious dog-napping plan of his own. Maybe he could even rope Dylan and Gage into becoming accomplices.

  “No, I guess I don’t,” he told her, even as his mind was filtering through possible scenarios that would get his dog back to him for good.

  For a second, Grace merely stared at him. He wondered if she’d been expecting a fight, gearing up for it, and it amused him a bit to have taken the wind out of her sails.

  Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Good. Then how about telling me what you want for dinner.”

  “Pizza,” he said without bothering to think about it.

  Her nose wrinkled. “I have a feeling you’ve been living on pizza and assorted other garbage long enough. Time to get healthy. Muffin and I stopped for groceries on the way over and picked up some foods that are actually good for you.”

  Releasing her grip on Bruiser—God, he hated hearing her call him “Muffin”—she pushed up from the sofa and got to her feet. “We’ll start out slow, though. I wouldn’t want your body to go into shock or anything.”