“What are you doing here?” She sounds genuinely confused, which tracks with what Brady said about her abruptly going radio silent when he called no less than two dozen times to confirm her travel plans after her show in Vegas.
“Your brother wanted me to check on you.”
“Brady sent you?” Her voice pitches higher. “How did he?—?”
That’s when something small, furry, and wearing what appears to be a rhinestone-studded jacket shoots between her legs and bolts down the hallway.
“Oh no, Pookie!” Rebecca lunges after the dog. “How did you—? You’ve never jumped off the bed before—it’s so high!”
I’m already moving, my training kicking in even though this is definitely not the kind of rescue I’m used to. The tiny pug—and I mean tiny because it could fit in a coffee mug—is surprisingly fast for having legs shorter than candy canes.
“Pookie, come back!” Rebecca is right behind me, barefoot and frantic. “She’s going to ruin her paw-di-cure!”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “Her what?”
“She had a spa day yesterday before the show!” Rebecca’s eyes are wide with panic. “Do you think this place has a pet spa?”
“I think we should focus on catching your dog first.”
We round the corner and nearly collide with Hollis, who co-owns the inn with his wife, Noella. He takes one look at me in my uniform and his eyebrows lift. “Reese, are you here on a call?”
“Something like that.” I scan the hallway. “Have you seen a small dog?”
“A puglet,” Becca says.
“A piglet?” Hollis’s eyebrows practically disappear into his white hair.
“My mini teacup pug.” Rebecca skids to a stop beside me.
She’s breathing hard, and I try very hard not to notice how the rosy flush to her cheeks makes her glow, despite the situation. I turn the dial on my thoughts down. She’s Brady’s little sister, which means she’s off-limits. I have to focus on the dog.
“Pookie!” Rebecca calls.
I tuck my chin, not necessarily eager to holler, “Pookie” in public.
“Pookie?” I ask.
Rebecca lifts her chin, contrite. “Yes, like pug and cookie mixed together. She’s my little pugcess.”
Letting out a sigh of what may very well be disbelief at the situation I find myself in, I say, “Let me guess, ‘pugcess’ is a play on the word princess?”
She beams as if I just answered a trivia question correctly. “That’s right!”
“You should’ve named her Dasher at this rate.”
Hollis points toward the end of the hall where a small Christmas tree stands in front of a window with frosted panes. On one side is the exit to the stairwell, and on the other, a small library, if I remember correctly. I’ve never stayed here, but I’ve been through several times as a matter of training and for various community events.
Hollis says, “Saw something zoom past a second ago. Thought it was a dust bunny or that I ought not have had that second cup of eggnog,” he mutters that last part.
We take off again, and a tiny, sparkly critter streaks past the tree, darting toward the library. Practically sprinting, I catch the pug as she’s about to careen into a large, lit-up, trumpeting angel. In one smooth scoop, harkening back to the days when Brady and I would play ball, and I’m holding the squirming, yipping ball of fur at arm’s length.
“Got her.”
Rebecca’s face floods with relief. She takes Pookie from me, cradling the dog close, and cooing like a mother would to a frightened child. All pretense of an irritable and entitled starlet has vanished. She’s Becca now. Then, turning to me, she says, “Thank you, Reese. Thank you so much. How can I pay you back?”
I nod in acknowledgement. “Just let your brother know you’re okay.”
Her smile drops and a guarded wall of ice slides onto her face. “I can’t.”
