A Dog And A Diamond

Chapter Two

“Did you find him?” Chelsea asked as half an hour later Callum climbed out of the SUV he’d just parked behind her car.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely so and a prick of guilt jabbed her heart that she’d dumped him without hanging around to offer support. The services of The Breakup Girl included counseling of the dumpee and it wasn’t unusual for her to spend up to an hour with the brokenhearted after she’d done the main part of her job. She let her clients’ exes pour out their hearts to her, and by the time she’d finished, most of them had decided getting shafted was the best thing that had ever happened to them. As her old friend Rosie often said, some people could cook soufflés that didn’t flop in the middle, some people could play a musical instrument and Chelsea’s talents lay in the art of dumping people. But she’d failed dismally in being a professional where Callum was concerned; being in the confined space of his office had flummoxed her.

And instead, here he was helping her.

“I guess you didn’t either,” he said as he walked toward her.

She shook her head, sniffing as the tears threatened to fall again. She hated crying and rarely did so—especially in front of other people—it made her feel weak. But there was only one thing in the world that truly mattered to her and that was Muffin, so these were exceptional circumstances. How would she survive if he didn’t come back?

“Let’s get you inside,” Callum said. And before she realized what was happening, she felt his arm close around her shoulders as he ushered her toward her front door. He was so warm, so solid, and she had a crazy urge to lean into him but instead she pulled away and headed inside, conscious of him following behind her. Chelsea was unsure why he was hanging around, but not in the head space to question. She’d barely noticed the mess the first time—so focused on Muffin—but now she hardly recognized her home. Living alone it was easy to keep things tidy as she liked them, but her little house looked as if she’d moved in a year ago, emptied everything she’d owned onto the floor and left it there.

“I don’t understand what they were looking for,” she said, surveying the mess. It would take her days to clean this up, but her first priority was finding Muffin.

Callum came up behind her. “Probably just kids, but either way, we should call the police before you move anything.”

“I need to do up some notices about Muffin and hang them around the neighborhood.” She glanced over at her little desk—or rather where her little desk was usually set up in the corner—and promptly burst into tears. They hadn’t taken her laptop or her printer but the desk had been upturned, her laptop looked to be broken in two and her printer lay in a number of smashed up pieces.

Callum cursed as he followed her gaze. Two seconds later he was right beside her. “Here.” He offered her a crisp white handkerchief. She took it, surprised—she didn’t know men still carried such things.

“Thank you,” she whispered and then used it to wipe her eyes.

As if a mind reader, he said, “My mom makes me carry it. She says you never know when you’ll need one and I’d never admit it to her, but it does come in handy every now and then.”

She almost smiled. “I’m Chelsea Porter, by the way. And tell your mom thanks.”

“I will. I’d tell you my name but I think you already know it. Can I fix you a drink? A coffee or maybe something stronger? I’d offer you a whiskey but I left in a bit of a hurry and didn’t bring any.”

Wasn’t she supposed to be the one offering him a drink? She shook her head. “Thanks, but all I care about right now is finding Muffin.”

And she didn’t drink—not that he needed to know that.

“I know you’re concerned about your dog,” he said, his tone soft and understanding, “so let me call this in to the cops and then I’ll help you work out what to do about Muffin.”

She sniffed and looked up at him properly. Lord, he was delicious, but she didn’t even know him. “You’re being very kind to me, considering...considering what I did to you.”

He shrugged. “I have two little sisters. I’m used to female hysterics.”

She noticed he made no comment on his now ex-fiancée. “I can guarantee I’m not usually like this.”

His lips curled up at the edges and she couldn’t help but smile a little too. “Besides, my mom would have my guts for garters if I left you alone to deal with this.”

“I like the sound of your mom.”

“She’s not bad. But if you’d prefer, I could call a friend to come and be with you.”

She should tell him that he could go and she would call a friend herself, but the truth was she hadn’t made any real friends in her time in Bend. Acquaintances yes, but no one she’d call on in an emergency, and however pathetic it made her, she didn’t want to be left alone right now. This burglary had shaken her up, reminded her that no matter how hard she worked to achieve the things she wanted, she still didn’t have complete control over her life. “I haven’t been in town long enough to make many friends.” Then she added, “But you don’t have to babysit me. I’m a big girl.”

“You are tall,” he said. “I haven’t met many women who are up to my chin without wearing heels, but I wouldn’t call you big.”

He’d noticed she was wearing flats? She couldn’t help being impressed—in her experience most men noticed nothing unless it was naked—and also a little flattered. Which was ridiculous. He’d just been dumped by his fiancée and Chelsea’s priority right now was finding Muffin. Her heart rate quickened again and she swallowed, trying to halt another wave of tears.

“But,” he continued, hopefully oblivious to her thoughts, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. Let me call the police and then we’ll work out what to do next.” Without another word, he stepped back outside onto her porch and a few moments later she heard his illegally sexy voice on the phone.

She sighed and flopped down onto the sofa, unable to believe this had happened. It felt surreal—Callum whom she’d only just met here helping her, yet Muffin achingly absent. Since she rescued Muffin from a shelter almost three years ago, he’d always, without fail, met her at the door with his tail wagging and his tongue hanging out when she’d returned home. It was true what they said about no one loving you quite as much as a dog did; she’d never had anyone who even came close.

She’d tried to make this house a home by filling it with bright cushions, bookshelves, funky ornaments and life-affirming, happy quotes, but without Muffin, it felt empty.

“A patrol unit will be here as soon as they can,” Callum said, coming back into the room.

“Oh, thank you.”

He sat down on the other end of the sofa and her belly did a little flip at his proximity. She hadn’t had a man in her house for... Well, not since she’d moved to Bend actually.

“Now,” he continued, not at all affected by her proximity to him, “the police suggested you make a list of what’s been taken for when they arrive. They don’t want you to move or touch anything, if possible. While you do that, I’m going to call the local vets and animal shelters and give them Muffin’s description. Have you got a photo?”

“Um...” She nodded and gazed around the mess, looking for her framed photos, but in the end, gave up and dragged out her cell. “Here,” she said after a few seconds of scrolling through photos. The majority of her photos were selfies of herself and Muffin—walking in the park, chilling on the couch—but she didn’t want to show Callum those photos. Eventually she found one of Muffin standing on the front porch looking out onto the street at something. It was one of the rare moments that her hyperactive dog had stood still.

“He’s a cutie.” Callum took her phone to look at the photo and his fingers brushed against hers in the exchange. Something warm and tingly curled low in her belly but she tried not to show it on her face.

“He is.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll go make that list.”

* * *

The first call Callum made was to a local security firm, asking them to stop by Chelsea’s house ASAP to fix her windows and change her locks. He hoped she had insurance to cover this disaster, but if not, he’d foot the bill—call it his good deed for the day. Then, he called every refuge and vet clinic he could find on the internet in the vicinity of Bend, leaving his cell number as a contact because, as he realized when speaking to the first place, he had no idea what Chelsea’s was. Besides, he guessed her contact details were on Muffin’s collar, so if anyone found him, they’d likely call her first anyway.

As he was disconnecting the final call, a police patrol car rolled to a stop on the curb. He shoved his cell in his pocket and went over to meet the cops.

“You call in a burglary?” asked cop numero uno as the two officers climbed out of the car.

“Yes, I did,” he said, trying not to smirk as he eyed the pair who were each other’s opposites in almost every possible way. One was short and fat with gray hair and smile lines around his eyes. The other was tall and thin, looked like he’d gotten his police badge from the toy section in Kmart and wore a scowl on his face as if a mere neighborhood burglary wasn’t at all the excitement he’d hoped for when he’d signed up.

“Your place?” asked the young guy.

“No,” Callum explained as he led them through the sparse front yard to the house. “It’s owned by Chelsea Porter. She’s a...” What the heck was she besides a woman who’d walked into his workplace and dropped a bombshell on his world? Or what should feel like a bombshell but after the initial shock didn’t make him feel anything much more than annoyed. At Bailey, not Chelsea. “She’s a friend,” he concluded, deciding the officer didn’t need to know their exact relationship as it had no bearing on the case.

They stepped in through the front door to find Chelsea staring at the mess in the living room, a notebook in her hand, a pen caught between her lips and a frown on her face. Even with this expression, she was gorgeous, and the fact he could think such thoughts made him wonder if perhaps he owed Bailey a favor. While he loved her—they’d known each other since they were in diapers and had a lot of fun together—he couldn’t deny he’d gotten engaged to show his dad he could settle down. Also because he wanted a family and was traditional in the sense that he believed children should be raised within a marriage. He didn’t believe in the type of love his mom and sisters gushed about while watching sappy made-for-television movies, but he did believe any relationship could work if you put in the hard yards.

“Jeez, what a freaking mess,” commented the younger man, echoing Callum’s thoughts as the two officers surveyed the crime scene.

Chelsea looked up and took the pen out of her mouth.

“Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Moore and this is Officer Fernandez. You must be Chelsea,” said the older officer. “I’m sorry this has happened and I know you probably want to get things cleaned up as soon as possible, so—”

“Frankly, I don’t give two hoots about the mess right now,” Chelsea interrupted. “Ask me what you need to and then tell me you can help me find my dog,”

“Your dog’s missing?” questioned Sergeant Moore.

She nodded.

“And—” Officer Fernandez gestured toward the notebook in her hand “—is that a list of the things that were taken?”

“That’s just it.” Chelsea glanced down at the notebook as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “I don’t think anything was.”

Officer Fernandez frowned. “Except the dog?”

Shock flashed in Chelsea’s eyes. “You think they stole Muffin? I just imagined he got scared and ran away.”

She sank down onto the sofa and Callum found himself crossing the room to sit beside her. He glared at the young cop.

The older one offered Chelsea a sympathetic smile. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll ask you a few questions and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” Chelsea whispered, her voice shaky.

The sergeant ran through the usual questions—how long Chelsea had been out of the house, what time she came home, had she touched anything, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Callum could see her getting more and more agitated as the questions became more and more repetitive.

“Do you think they could have been looking for something?”

She quirked an eyebrow at the cops. “I earn an honest living, but I haven’t got any family jewels lying around if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Callum couldn’t help but smile at her sass.

“Okay. And what do you do for a living?” asked the tall, young cop. The way he spoke made it sound as if Chelsea was the one who’d committed a crime and Callum fought the urge to say so.

“I’m a breakup expert,” she said, in much the same manner she might say she were a hairdresser or a nurse.

Like Callum had done earlier that day, the officers raised their eyebrows and adopted mutual expressions of confusion at this reply.

Chelsea offered a short explanation. “I break up with other people’s partners, via phone, email or in person, so they don’t have to do it themselves. But I really don’t see what my career has to do with this.”

“Hmm...” Sergeant Moore pondered. “Could any of these men you’ve broken up with bear a grudge? Could they want to hurt you like you hurt them?”

“First,” she said, her eyes sparking, “it’s not just men I dump, and second, I am good at what I do. So no, I think that is a highly unlikely possibility. Are we almost finished? While we’re sitting here, none of us are out there looking for my dog. What exactly are you going to do to try to find Muffin? Can you register him as missing?”

Officer Fernandez smirked and spoke in a patronizing tone. “Missing dogs aren’t actually our area of expertise. I suggest—”

“But,” interrupted his superior, “as Muffin may have been stolen he is our responsibility. I assure you we will do our best to find him and return him to you and get to the bottom of all this.” He gestured around him at the mess.

“Thank you,” Chelsea said, standing. She saw the two men to the door and then grabbed a ball cap off a hook on the wall near the door. It appeared to be the only thing in the whole place left untouched. She tugged it down onto her head and was about to step through the front door when she turned back, as if suddenly remembering him.

“And thank you for everything too, Callum,” she said. “You’ve been beyond generous with your help and if there’s anything I can ever do to you to repay the favor...”

“Forget it.” He waved his hand. “You going out looking for Muffin again?” Stupid question.

“Yes. I want to have a thorough search of the neighborhood on foot before it gets dark.”

“I’d offer to help,” he said, “but someone should stay here and wait for the security guys instead.”

Her face fell and it was obvious she hadn’t given one thought to her unsecured house. “Oh. No, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. “You’ve helped enough already.”

Damn straight he had and he couldn’t really explain why he’d offered, but neither could he just walk away. He liked animals as much as the next guy, but he’d never seen anyone quite so distraught over a dog as Chelsea appeared to be. She really shouldn’t leave her house unattended the way it was or someone might come in and loot the place. “My conscience says otherwise. Now go find Muffin. Unless you don’t trust me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust anyone, but I also care little about the contents of this house.” And with that, she turned on her heels and hurried down the front steps, the sight of her cute ass in her tight business trousers making his gut clench.

Alone and cursing his red blood cells, Callum called his sister again and told her he’d be out longer than he’d first imagined. Although he heard the curiosity in her voice, she didn’t pry and for that he was thankful.

His life had suddenly become very complicated, and he wasn’t sure he could explain everything that had happened today even to himself.

Chapter Three

Callum glanced at his watch, hoping the security company he’d called wouldn’t be too long, and then once again looked around the cottage-sized house surveying the mess. The cops had done their thing—although he didn’t think they were taking this burglary as seriously as they should be—so he could start the cleanup without fear of disturbing evidence. Although this wasn’t his house, he’d never been the type of guy to sit around and twiddle his thumbs. Putting his phone and keys down on the kitchen counter, Callum pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, wondering where to start. Not wanting to overstep the mark by rifling through Chelsea’s possessions, he chose to begin with gathering up the broken glass and other damaged goods.

He found plastic trash bags in a drawer in the kitchen and a vacuum in the cupboard in the hallway. Taking his time not to throw out anything that looked important or of sentimental value, he went through the house collecting the big bits of unsalvageable debris. On the kitchen table were a few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He glanced down and saw hundreds of other tiny pieces scattered on the floor. Collecting them back up into the box took a while and he hoped he’d found them all. Next he righted the furniture that had been upturned in the invasion and put the pieces of her computer back on her desk. As he did so, his gaze caught on a photo—miraculously it didn’t appear to be a victim of the carnage—and he realized something that had been bugging him about Chelsea’s home since he stepped inside. The one-and-only photo Chelsea had on display was of an old man sitting in a tattered armchair with a teenage girl standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck. To him, it seemed almost unfeminine not to surround yourself with photos of memories and loved ones; it was just something he’d taken for granted as part of the female way. Until now.

Without thinking, he picked up the frame and stared down at the photo. The young girl had to be Chelsea, all that unruly caramel-blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Yet, although her mouth was stretched into a massive grin, her eyes weren’t smiling—instead they harbored an anxious, unsettled look, exactly the same as the expression she’d been wearing today. He frowned in response and found himself wondering what her story was. Why didn’t she have other photos? Was this man her only family? There were all these prints of affirmative quotations on the walls—All That I Seek Is Already within Me, Allow Your Soul to Sparkle, You’re Never Too Old to Wish Upon a Star—as if she were trying to create a safe happy haven, but there was something missing here. Something warm, something real.

A knock on the open front door startled Callum from his reverie. “Hello! Anyone home?” called an overly chirpy male voice.

Callum rolled his eyes. Exactly how many people left the door open if they went out? And if they did, well, they probably deserved to be burglarized. “Yep. Come on in,” he called, putting the framed photo back down on the desk and turning toward the front door.

A short but very buff guy, dressed in a tight-fitting uniform stepped inside and raised his eyebrows as he looked around. “Someone sure went to town on your place.”

Callum didn’t correct him or comment that he’d already tided up a lot of the mess. He just wanted this man to leave again. Instead, he nodded. “I need you to replace the locks on all the doors, replace the glass that’s broken and,” he added almost as an afterthought, “can you also install proper locks on the windows?” Chelsea’s current locks wouldn’t even keep out a small child, and for some reason, knowing what she did for a job, he didn’t like the idea of her living in an insecure house. Even he, a relatively levelheaded man, had felt a surge of rage toward her when she’d first “dumped him,” so he could imagine there were men out there who might get a little heavy-handed after such mortifying rejection. He didn’t like the thought of that one bit.

“No problemo,” said the security man, dropping a toolbox to the floor and then stooping to open it. He started immediately, and although he whistled while he did so, he worked quickly and efficiently and of that Callum approved.

While the worker changed the old locks and installed new ones, Callum continued tidying up. The noise of the security man’s machine blocked out his whistling and Callum experienced a sense of achievement when he finally switched it off and examined his progress. Callum’s mom would be proud—she always harped on about raising new-aged heroes—and Bailey didn’t know what she’d lost.

Bailey. He was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t done him a favor. She was right—he didn’t have the time at the moment to give her what she wanted as all his energies needed to be piped into reviving the distillery.

He simply wished she’d had the guts to tell him to his face.

Callum sighed at that thought. His dad had done a stellar job of pretending everything was okay, but the truth had startled him when he’d finally gotten his hands on the business’s books. McKinnel’s Distillery wasn’t in dire straits but it was pretty damn close. He put this down to the fact his father refused to move with the times, despite the number of other boutique distilleries and breweries that were popping up all around them. Every time he’d raised this issue when his dad had been alive, every time he’d suggested a new idea that could raise revenue, Conall had pooh-poohed whatever the latest proposal was and reminded his son who was in charge.

Sometimes Callum couldn’t believe he hadn’t cut and run from the family business years ago, but the truth was, he loved the distillery almost as much as Conall had. You had to wonder though whether the stress of declining business had contributed to his father’s fatal heart attack.

If only you’d let me help, Dad. If only you’d given me the chance to prove myself.

But Conall McKinnel had been a hard man, almost impenetrable to anyone except his wife, for as long as Callum could remember. Mom put it down to the tragic loss of his twin brother, Hamish, which had happened not long after the two had established the distillery.

“I’m all done,” announced the security dude, appearing suddenly beside Callum in the living room and offering him a bunch of shiny, new keys. “You’ve done a good job of cleaning up here too.”

At the other man’s tone, Callum almost expected him to give him a pat on the back. “Thanks,” he said, referring to the work done, not the compliment. He dragged his wallet out of his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

The man quoted what sounded like an exorbitant amount, but Callum handed over his Amex without question. “Can you give me a receipt for the insurance company?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Callum flinched at the term of endearment and bit his tongue, which wanted to say that they weren’t “buddies” at all. According to his mom, sisters and even Bailey, he had a tendency to be unnecessarily grumpy. Quite frankly, he thought much of the population had an unnecessary tendency to be jovial.

When the workman realized Callum wasn’t the type for idle chitchat, he left, beeping his horn and waving as he reversed out Chelsea’s drive. Once again Callum found himself alone at this stranger’s house. Standing on her front porch, he looked up at the darkening sky and then down at his watch. Chelsea had been gone a few hours now and he guessed this meant she hadn’t found her mutt, but surely she couldn’t stay out all night looking. He’d called the shelters, the cops and neighbors knew the dog was missing—what more could she do?

With this thought, he decided to go look for her himself. Callum found a scrap of paper, scribbled down his cell number in case she returned before he found her and needed to get inside her house, then stuck it onto her front door. Ensuring her house was indeed secure, he locked the door, popped her new bunch of keys into his pocket and then jogged toward his SUV. Although he’d grown up in Jewell Rock, he’d never spent much time in Bend and he’d certainly never driven around this end of town.