Belle winced. “How do things look out at Furever Paws? The tornado hit the shelter pretty hard, didn’t it?”
“Yes, from what I hear, it touched right down on the sisters’ land. They lost a lot of trees, and the shelter’s roof was pretty much demolished. I’m sure their insurance will fix it, but in the meantime, it’s a mess. I feel terrible about it. Birdie and Bunny are overwhelmed, and those poor animals have been through enough as it is.” Amanda wished for the thousandth time that she could adopt one of the dogs.
But she was hardly ever home. It didn’t seem fair, especially for a rescue dog in need of attention. In need of love.
Love.
Amanda’s throat clogged. What was wrong with her? The tornado must have rattled her more than she wanted to admit.
“Well, at least you’re getting out of here for a bit. Some time away from this place will do you good. You’ve been working since sunup.”
Actually, Amanda had dragged herself into the kitchen before sunrise, but not completely out of necessity. She’d wanted to get her food prep and other responsibilities out of the way so she could have some time to experiment with the goat cheese she’d picked up at the farmer’s market over the weekend.
“I want to take a few pictures of my pastry before I go.” She pushed her way through the swinging door, back into the kitchen. Her sanctuary, where she’d been perfectly content until she’d been distracted once again by the brooding newspaperman.
What a colossal waste of time, as evidenced by her puff pastry, which suddenly looked significantly less puffy than it had before she’d abandoned it to deliver coffee to Mr. Cranky Pants.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” Belle said, peering over Amanda’s shoulder.
“You mean sad and deflated?” Amanda slid her phone back into her pocket. She wouldn’t be posting to Instagram today, after all. “No, it’s not.”
“It might still taste good.” Ah Belle, always the optimist.
“What makes puff pastry special is its light and airy texture. I think that ship has sailed.” Amanda pinned her with a glare. “Yet another reason I shouldn’t be trying to flirt with a stranger over his takeout coffee order.”
“Spring Forest is still a relatively small town. We could check up on him, you know. Find out more about him? Perhaps we could even be hospitable and start a conversation with Ryan himself. Then he wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.”
“Yes, but my pastry would still be flat.” Amanda picked it up and dumped it unceremoniously into the nearest trash can.
“Maybe your social life wouldn’t, though,” Belle muttered.
Amanda pretended not to hear her.
She didn’t need a man. She needed a good night’s sleep. She needed a family member to step up and help out at the Grille. She needed enough Instagram followers to convince her mother she could successfully expand the restaurant into catering weddings and maybe even fancy galas in nearby Raleigh.
And right now, she needed to get to the animal shelter. Because dogs were much simpler than actual human relationships.
Dogs were loyal. They were honest, and they didn’t grow bored, change their feelings on a whim or run away when times got tough. They were possibly the best living example of unconditional love.
Sometimes Amanda wondered how they could be so gentle and sweet, because in her experience, human beings could be quite the opposite.
* * *
Ryan Carter clutched his cardboard coffee cup and pushed through the door of The Spring Forest Chronicle, reminding himself once again to slow down. Breathe. Take a look around.
He wasn’t in DC anymore. Things moved at a much slower pace in Spring Forest. That’s why he’d moved here in the first place. After the sudden and drastic upheaval in his personal life, he’d needed a fresh start. He’d needed a soft place to land, for both himself and his son.
It had taken a little over a year of searching, but he’d found it. Spring Forest was everything they needed, an oasis dripping with Southern charm. Moving here felt like falling into a soft feather bed after a long, restless season of too little sleep.
Too little joy.
He no longer needed to drop everything he was doing in order to attend a White House press briefing without notice, and the back-to-back deadlines that so often woke him up in a cold sweat were now in his past, like so much else. He didn’t even have an editor-in-chief breathing down his neck anymore. That job belonged to Ryan now.
Except The Spring Forest Chronicle wasn’t The Washington Post. Not even close.
“Hello, Mr. Carter.” Jonah Miller, Ryan’s assistant, stood and beamed at him.
“Jonah, we talked about this. Remember? You don’t need to stand every time I enter the building.” He forced a smile and aimed for an expression that somewhat resembled patience. “And I want you to call me Ryan.”
“Right. Sorry.” Jonah’s gaze dropped to Ryan’s coat and tie. “I keep forgetting.”
Ryan was going to have to stop wearing suits to the office. The Spring Forest Chronicle wasn’t exactly a formal working environment, as evidenced by the Converse sneakers on Jonah’s feet and the skinny jeans on the younger man’s legs. Old habits died hard, though, and Ryan’s closet was filled with gray flannel and pinstripes. Relics from his former life.
He made a mental note to buy some casual clothes as soon as possible. As it was, he felt more like Jonah’s dad than his boss. Impossible, considering Ryan was only thirty-three and Jonah was somewhere in his early twenties. But being around all that youthful optimism made Ryan feel ancient, and the last thing he needed at the office was a reminder of his shortcomings as a father.
“Do you have any messages for me?” He shot Jonah a hopeful glance.
As much as Ryan hated to admit it, leaving his position as the political editor at the Post to buy a small-town newspaper was more of an adjustment than he’d expected. He missed his old job—the adrenaline rush that came with chasing a breaking story, the sense of accomplishment, the prestige. Dillon was more important than any of those things, obviously. That’s why they were here.
But Ryan would have given his left arm for a story to cover—a real story with some meat on its bones. A story that didn’t involve a bake sale or the removal of a stop sign or new uniforms for the high school marching band. The only thing truly newsworthy he’d covered recently had been the tornado that swept through town.
He could have done without that particular news item. The twister had scared Dillon so badly that he’d slept in the bathtub for three straight nights afterward. Ryan had stretched out on the bathroom floor in his sleeping bag alongside the tub, unwilling to leave his frightened son alone. His lower back was a mess.
But at least he’d been there.
For once.
“Yes, actually.” Jonah tore a sheet from the pink message pad on his desk. Ryan hadn’t seen a message pad like that in years. He wondered if it was left over from the building’s banking days. “Patty Matthews from the elementary school called.”
Ryan’s jaw clenched as he stared down at the message. Mrs. Matthews was Dillon’s teacher, which meant the call had zero to do with business. Worse, it might mean that there was a problem with his son.
Jonah cleared his throat. “She said she tried to reach you on your cell, but it rolled straight to voice mail.”
“That’s because I was at the mobile store buying a new phone. It’s only been activated for a few minutes.”