Designed for Love (Texas Nights) (2 page)

“Napoleon—” she put plenty of sweetness in her low voice, “—be a good dog and bring Mommy the package.”

Her dog wheeled around and shot down the aisle, plastic and cotton flying behind him.

“What in the Sam Hill?” bellowed a man with a noticeable twang.

Oh
,
no.

Ashton turned in time to see the store manager reach down to grab for Napoleon. But her dog juked left-right-left and made it around the manager’s legs. If this situation weren’t so horrible, it would be entertaining. Napoleon was
fast.

“Ms. Davenport—” yes, definitely a bellow, “—what in the name of Pete do you think your dog is doing?”

Sam and Pete had nothing to do with this situation, but she was pretty sure Napoleon was outwitting them all. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get him under control.”

“I can’t have this kind of nonsense in my store. I don’t care if he is a seeing-eye dog, he can’t scare folks and tear up merchandise. You realize you’ll have to pay...”

There it was, the money thing again. But Ashton put on her charm-donors-out-of-millions smile and said, “Absolutely. Let me just grab Napoleon and I’ll take care of everything.” Guess this meant she’d be putting the yogurt back in the dairy case. Maybe Kibble Kare was good with milk. At least she had a quart at home.

The manager was still spewing words as she pushed around him, scanned for a flash of fur close to the ground.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t where she spotted it. In fact, the fur was about waist-high and behind a curved glass window. Everything inside Ashton went cold then hot. Light then heavy. Napoleon hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted his filet. Because there he was, inside the meat case. Maybe she could sneak back there and—

Miguel turned from where he was slicing a block of cheese, and by his triple take, Ashton was pretty sure he’d spotted Napoleon too. “Hey, get outta there.” The butcher advanced on Napoleon.

“Don’t,” she called. “He’ll just—” shit, “—try to get away.”

Sure enough, Napoleon took off across the tenderloin, hopped over the chicken cordon bleu. He’d never been a huge poultry fan. But oh crud, up ahead were the strings of chorizo. Napoleon clamped one sausage in his jaws and took a flying leap out of the meat counter, the sausages following him like train cars derailing. Miguel tried to catch him, but he just sailed through the butcher’s arms and hit the ground at a dead run, a pair of maxi-pad wings fluttering on his back. As he scooted past her, she’d swear he was grinning around that damned sausage.

Napoleon didn’t make it ten feet before he was scooped up in a big hand. Held airborne, with the sausages trailing down and swinging like a pendulum. His growl at Mac was low, but halfhearted.

“Drop it,” Mac told him.

God, wasn’t this how this had all started?

“I said.” Mac’s voice was surprisingly even, but still it made Ashton’s midsection tighten. “Drop. It.”

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who felt a little loose in the tummy because a rivulet of liquid sluiced down Mac’s forearm, dripped off his elbow.

“Shit,” Ashton whispered. Napoleon’s head whipped around and he whined, reminding her of a time she’d used that word as an expletive and he’d taken it as a command and proceeded to produce. “No, sweetie, that’s not what I meant. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

More whining from Napoleon and a disgusted snort from Mac.

Ashton approached them, one careful step at a time. Small tail wag. Good, good sign. When she got close enough, she held out her hands, and Mac passed her Napoleon. And oh, he was wet and stunk of pork and garlic. His fur sported little coffee bean snarls and maxi-pad feathers.

“Napoleon...” she started, but as much as she wanted to chastise him, it might lead to more bad behavior. As if she could afford any more of that. As if she could afford the damage he’d already done.

From behind her came a throat clearing. “Ms. Davenport, you can pay up front.”

The manager’s unspoken message was
and then get the hell out of my store.

* * *

Holy shit.
Hurricane Ashton hits again.
Mac watched her cuddle her dog as though he’d just won a blue ribbon prize at some fancy-ass dog show. Meanwhile, Mac had dog piss dripping down his arm. He swiped a feminine hygiene product off the floor to dry his skin.

Huh. Who knew? Those commercials touting extra absorbency weren’t full of shit. He glanced around for a trashcan. Nothing.

He just sighed and stuffed the pad into his back pocket. Not as if this little scenario could get much worse anyway. And to think he’d simply stopped to buy chili for dinner. He should get one of the weather predictor things. Maybe it would tell him when the hurricane and her dog were within striking distance.

And wasn’t it completely screwed up that he’d wanted Ashton Davenport since the first day he’d spotted her? With her yes-you-can-mess-me-up-good blond hair, curvy-enough-to-grip hips, and just-right rack, every time he ran into her around town, his first impulse was to shove her up against the nearest vertical surface and see if he could shut that sassy mouth up with his.

Even now, with the wreck her dog had made around them, he had to beat back the need to two-step her toward a rack of processed cheese and check her tonsils.

But he didn’t need that kind of trouble. For some reason, this former Houston debutante had made Shelbyville her new home, but he was here for one purpose only. Bank enough change to get his ass back to Dallas. Which he couldn’t do until he paid off the subcontractors he’d left hanging when his construction company tanked.

Sure, he’d dated a few high-maintenance types in the past. Ashton Davenport? Her maintenance needs were so stratospheric he couldn’t see them clearly even if he squinted.

Didn’t keep him from watching her ass anytime she was walking away from him. Didn’t keep him from wondering how those long legs would feel wrapped around him. Didn’t keep him from wanting what he should never want in the first place.

Hell, the woman couldn’t control her dog. He’d heard her interior design business was all but a ghost town. And if there was anything he needed like he needed another hole in the head, it was a woman with a life as screwed up as his. Yeah, she might have money to throw at her troubles, but that didn’t seem to be solving her problems right now.

Since the Piggly Wiggly was the only major grocery store in Shelbyville, in the future she’d either be paying convenience store prices or driving to the next town for groceries.

“I’m...” Ashton paused, closed those gorgeous blue eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that Napoleon...”

“Peed down my arm?”

She nodded without opening her eyes. Why that made him want to turn her into his arms and give her a hug, he had no idea. “He’s never done anything quite this...”

“Out of control?” Yeah, the place was a friggin’ wreck, but it had been kinda funny to see the manager about pop an artery watching Ashton’s dog jump around in the meat case.

“He just wanted his normal dinner.”

“And that’s what?”

“Filet.”

“Pretty sure you’re not talking about some fancy-ass dog food.”

“No. Tenderloin cut two inches thick.”

Holy Christ, he hadn’t even eaten a steak that prime since...well, he wasn’t sure when. “He like those bacon-wrapped?”

Ashton’s eyes popped open. “It’s not funny.” Still, her lips moved, and she swiped a hand across them as though to wipe away a smile.

“I think it would’ve been a helluva lot easier to hit the meat counter first. More likely the little emperor would’ve stayed in his purse that way.”

“It’s not a purse. It’s a pet transpo—”

“Ms. Davenport,” the manager interrupted, “I ran the total for you. Please come to the customer service counter to settle your bill.”

Ashton’s spine snapped straight. “Just let me get my purse. I left it—”

Mac produced her purse with the dog’s little house thing half stuffed in the top. “I snagged it for you.”

“Thanks.” Her voice broke on the word.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. And weren’t they a fragrant trio? Ammonia, coffee, and Ashton’s scent—something that made him think of slick skin and slow sex. “Just pay for everything. Give the guy a few months and he’ll probably let you back into the store.”

“That’s not—” She shook herself and smiled, but as his daddy would’ve said, it was as fake as the tits in Hugh Hefner’s house. “Thanks again for the help. I’m not sure I would’ve caught him if you hadn’t been here. No telling what would’ve happened next.”

“Bakery?”

“He
is
fond of buttercream frosting.”

“Ms. Davenport?” the manager called from the aisle in front of them.

She shrugged an apologetic shoulder. “Time to pay the piper.”

Something about her forlorn little movement and the way her lips turned down compelled Mac to escort her to the front of the store. She had to be humiliated. The least he could do was stand beside her while she wrote out that check and walked out of here without a single steak.

He fell into step with her, and she glanced up at him, her raised eyebrows telegraphing surprise.

“Hey, I figured I was here for the beginning of the show. I might as well hang around for the last act.”

“Last supper, you mean.” At least he thought that was what she muttered into the dog’s fur.

When they made it to the front, people were clustered around the checkout counters. As Ashton strode through them as though she was a queen and they were her subjects, everyone shrank back. No distinct words could be heard, but the buzzing was clear. Having grown up in a small town a couple of hours from Shelbyville, he knew how quickly gossip flowed, and he preferred to stay as far away from the grapevine as possible. Another reason he rarely visited his hometown.

Or his mom.

No need for chili now because guilt filled his belly.

Ashton settled her purse strap higher on her shoulder, adjusted Napoleon in her arms and strode—chin up—toward the customer service booth. The manager sat up there behind a half wall of glass and looked down on Ashton as though he were the judge and she were a defendant about to be sent up the river to do time. Hard time.

He waved an adding machine tape that was at least two feet long. Who the hell used an adding machine anymore?

“Without taking into account any damages to store property, the total of the food products your...dog...destroyed is $9,546.”

Ashton gasped as though she’d been sucker-punched in the chest and stepped back. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ll get an estimate on any renovations that might be required, and then, of course, we have emotional damages.”

Wait a damn minute.
Emotional
damages and renovation? “What renovations?” Mac, of all people, should know when a building needed rehabbing. “As far as I can see, the dog just pulled down a few packages.”

“He
did
compromise the meat counter.”

Fine, the dog would have to cop to that. “But emotional damages?”

“Possibly everyone in the store. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman he cornered doesn’t file her own suit.”

The groan that came from Mac’s left was low and anguished. The same moan he’d heard from his own throat the morning after a few benders. Most of them induced by the wreck that killed his dad.

“Look,” Mac said, “if she pays for the lost merchandise and let’s say...another five hundred on top, that should cover mental anguish.” Bullshit if you asked him, but Ashton could afford it.

The manager tapped a pen to his lips. “I suppose that would be fair. I can’t, however, speak for that woman. She rushed out of here like her clothes were on fire. It’s doubtful she’ll ever shop here again. In fact, now that I think about it, that’s lost revenue—”

“An extra grand, and that’s the best you’re gonna get,” Mac barked out.

“Deal.” The manager stood, reached over and shook Mac’s hand. Yeah, as if he had any business negotiating for Ashton. But she just continued to stand there as though playing the red light part of the red-light-green-light game.

“I’ll accept a check or cash, Ms. Davenport,” the manager said.

That seemed to wake Ashton out of her freeze-frame. “I don’t normally carry that much cash.” She breathed deep as though to steady herself, and Napoleon licked her chin. “How about American Express?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t accept American Express, but a check will work nicely.”

“I don’t have a checkbook.”

The manager’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I suppose if your friend here—” he inclined his head toward Mac, “—would be willing to stay here while you go get your checkbook then—”

“I don’t
have
a checkbook. My financial transactions are done online or through my credit cards,” she said, her fingers running back and forth over her dog’s fur until he looked as though he’d been electrocuted. “So MasterCard or Visa?”

“If you insist on making reparations with a credit card, I’ll have to add four percent to the total.” The manager’s fingers flew over his adding machine. “So that comes out to $10,967.84. Since I likely underestimated emotional damages, why don’t we just round it up to an even eleven?”

“Yeah, why the hell not?” Ashton muttered, trying to dig around in her huge bag, only to have the dog’s carrier thing drop to the floor and Napoleon wriggle in her tight hold.

Shit.
Mac reached for the little sausage stealer, tucked him under his arm like a football.

A tiny smile lifted Ashton’s lips, but her eyes—a little glittery—sent waves of appreciation out to Mac. And damned if that didn’t hit him with three shots—groin, gut and too damned close to his heart. He clenched his teeth and reinforced his chest with an I-beam. She played the poor little rich girl like a pro, he’d give her that.

Napoleon’s lame growl vibrated against Mac’s ribs. From between his teeth, Mac said to the dog, “Keep that up, and I’ll make
you
into sausage.”

The dog went limp in his hold. Wouldn’t have surprised Mac to see the fur ball drop a paw onto his forehead and sigh.

Ashton passed the manager a silver credit card. If it was anything like the American Express black card, she’d be out of trouble in a flash. The manager ran it through a machine, watched it as though he expected it to jump off his desk and make tracks for the door. When the machine beeped, he
hmmed.