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Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
So, she decided some cheer in the form of sugary carbohydrates was in order. It was the only sensible route at that point and had never steered her wrong before.
Molly shoved her icy fingers into her coat pockets and tramped toward Spruce Path, journeying to the local mecca that was Chunky’s Churros. She’d always hoped the food truck’s name was more of a cute moniker for the owner, rather than a commentary on his customers, but her confidence had long since fled the scene on that one.
Just like everyone else.
She ambled toward the eyesore that was the safety-orange and Barney-purple monstrosity that made up the churro capital of Aurora—well, for as long as he parked the truck there, anyway. A soft whine interrupted the decent brood she’d worked up, halting her from going up to the window. Four russet paws poked out from around one of the town’s boxwoods that had been pruned to within an inch of its life. Short, black fur took over where the red coat ended, revealing familiar curious brown eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart. I was wondering whether I’d ever see you again.” Molly squatted down and gave the hound dog that had been in the alley next to her restaurant the rubdown of her life. The pup wasted no time rolling onto her back and lolling an approving floppy pink tongue in Molly’s direction. “You want some treats?”
At that, the dog’s ears performed a miracle of gravity, perking up despite their droopy weight. Determination, it seemed, was a cross-species trait.
“What do you want? They have churro waffles, which are my personal favorite. Think waffle fries, but with sweet dough instead of salty potatoes, though I think we’d skip the chocolate sauce for you. They’ve also got more traditional churros, which are stuffed with pretty much anything. I highly recommend the caramel, unless you’re more of a vanilla cream gal. No judgment.”
At the mention of caramel, the dog rolled over and licked the tips of Molly’s fingers. “Message received, my dear.”
After a harried exchange of coin for confections and a renewed determination to fit a gluttonous amount of good stuff in too few hands, Molly dangled a churro in front of her new four-legged friend before taking a bite herself. “Not sure caramel’s good for dogs, but who the hell am I to judge, right?” she said around a mouthful of sweetened nirvana.
“It’s not.” The bass timbre of a voice she hadn’t heard in several sun cycles almost caught her as off guard as the startled slender tail that had whipped around and nearly nipped her nose.
Damn if her body hadn’t remembered exactly how that resonance had scraped across her skin. Once Molly recovered, both females, two- and four-legged, stood to address the intrusion. She opened her mouth, preparing to blast him with a tidal wave of indignation that had been brewing the past few days, but what came out was anything but. “You look like shit.”
Brass’s pallor had become even more evident, slashed by the shadows of the boxwoods and petite arborvitae. The high-necked collar of his black trench coat brushed against a chin stubbled and stained with several days’ worth of growth. Some of the familiar starch had left his shoulders and seemed to weigh down his forlorn frown. His forelock, which always acted with a will of its own, stood at an odd angle, as if it had been repeatedly pulled in directions both unnatural and unwanted.
But it was those infuriating eyes that worried Molly the most. They weren’t just dim but dead.
Brass took a step forward and only spared the dog a glance before returning his attention to Molly. “Can I walk you back to the restaurant?”
“How did you know I was even there today?” She lifted her chin. “It’s not like you bothered calling or showing up when I expected you to be there.”
Shame crinkled the edges of his eyes. “I was not myself. I needed some time?—”
“Away from me. I get it.”
“No, you don’t.” The finality with which he spoke the words had her stopping short. Even the dog issued a growl of warning at Brass’s uncharacteristic tone. “Not yet, anyway,” he continued with only slightly more composure than a ruffled understudy on opening night. “But you deserve to. I’d like to explain if you’ll let me.”
Again, Molly mentally amended.
And wasn’t that just the kick in the pants Molly should have been used to by then? She could teach a class on groveling and even secure a college tenure track for the subject matter. What she was not used to was the stark role reversal. She had been on the receiving end of a good grovel the sum total of zero times in her life, and with Brass’s current look bordering on dragged-through-the-mud chic, she couldn’t say her curiosity wasn’t a bit piqued.
It’s not going to change anything.
She played the reminder on repeat even as she stepped forward with one churro waffle extended.
Skepticism and perhaps a dash of hope lifted Brass’s brow. “Is that a peace offering?”
“Nope.” She popped the unsauced treat into her mouth and chewed with vigor despite its undressed state. “It’s a countdown. You have until the time it takes for Churro and I to finish our dessert before I decide whether I want to stop listening to you and forget your face entirely.” Molly began walking, and the dog, right on cue, took up her stride alongside her.
Faced with a choice to either follow or fall behind, Brass joined them. “You named the dog Churro?”
“I like to think the name chose her, but yes. And time’s a-wastin.’ You better walk and talk. I’m only even entertaining you because you’ve already ruined enough. I won’t let you ruin my snack as well.” She bit down on another churro, this one filled with caramel, and tossed the rest to the dog, who snuffled it up in solidarity before a single sugary drip marred the sidewalk.
“Duly noted.”
They walked in silence the few blocks back to the restaurant. The only sound permeating Brass’s thoughts was the rhythmic clacking of claws on concrete. The damn noise had become a metronome against which his troubled thoughts paced. It seemed Molly was content to give him enough rope to hang himself, allowing him to indulge in his mental strategies while she indulged in her sweets. The dog was an entirely different ball of wax, however. The hound’s chocolate eyes cast their northward suspicion his way every few feet. While he could appreciate the little thing’s protective qualities, especially where Molly was concerned, there was something about the canine’s energy that irked him.
Perhaps it was the paranoia courtesy of five days with nothing but his worsening curse for company.
