Not Just The Girl Next Door. Stacy ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter One

      Mollie McFadden scooted closer to the good-looking guy in the corner. “Hey, handsome. How’d a fellow like you end up in a place like this?”

      Soulful brown eyes glanced in her direction, then quickly away, but Mollie didn’t let that deter her. She had a reputation for winning over strong, silent types. “I bet you’ve got a story to tell, don’t you?”

      Again a slight flicker of eyelids, this time followed by a big sigh.

      “A heartbreaking one, too, huh?” She inched a little closer but kept her hands to herself even though her heart ached to offer the comfort he obviously craved. “Bet you’re feeling lost and abandoned and alone.”

      Her pulse skipped a beat as he shifted. He might have simply been looking for a more comfortable position, but she didn’t miss how he settled a little closer to her. “But you have to believe things are going to get better.”

      He let out a huff that sounded more than a little doubtful. “I’m telling you, it will. Look at all Spring Forest has been through in the last few months, including a tornado, of all things!”

      Maybe she was reading too much into body language, but Mollie swore a slight shudder ran through his solid frame. “The storm was pretty scary, wasn’t it? But in Spring Forest, people really help each other out. You’ll see if you just give us a chance. In fact...” she leaned closer to whisper “...something tells me you might even find your perfect match.”

      A pair of dark eyebrows rose at that. “I know, I know. It seems hard to believe now, but I have a good feeling about this.”

      And that feeling grew and bloomed and warmed her heart into a melting puddle of goo as the rescue dog named Chief slowly lowered his chin to rest against her jean-clad thigh.

      Reaching out, she gently placed her hand on the soft ruff of fur at his neck. “We’re going to find a great home for you.” Though she’d worked with plenty of pound puppies during her years volunteering at the animal shelter, Mollie’s throat clogged with tears as she promised, “The very best home.”

      The Whitaker sisters, affectionately known by the nicknames Birdie and Bunny, had asked Mollie to come to the Furever Paws Animal Rescue to meet with Chief. As a dog trainer, she worked with many dogs—from purebreds to shelter mutts. Shy pups like Chief, though, were the ones she had a soft spot for. Most canines were outgoing, adventurous and loving by nature. To see one so trapped by fear, cowering in the back of his kennel, broke her heart.

      Adopters were all too likely to pass up diamonds in the rough like Chief. “Not this time, boy,” she promised. “We’re going to break you out of your shell and show the world how fabulous you are.”

      Mollie cringed a little at the familiar words. They mirrored the bold, confident vow her friend Amanda Sylvester had made. Only Amanda hadn’t been talking about a four-legged companion. She’d been talking about Mollie.

      But Mollie didn’t care about the whole world seeing her as special...just one particular guy who unfortunately only saw her as his best friend’s little sister.

      Chief made a small sound, a mix between a whine and a bark, definitely punctuated by a question mark at the end.

      “Oh, don’t you worry,” Mollie insisted as she shoved thoughts of her pathetic love life from her mind. “The odds are way more in your favor.”

      With his striking black-and-tan coloring, medium build and short fur, Chief had the outward makings of an easily adoptable dog. All he needed was a bit of confidence and adopters would no longer walk by his kennel before he had a chance to catch their eye.

      “Something tells me you’re smart, too.” Even though he was a mix, shepherds were generally regarded as one of the most intelligent breeds. “I bet we can even teach you some tricks, like—”

      Mollie didn’t get a chance to tell Chief about the joys of fetch. A sudden crash shook the window. With a startled yelp, the dog scrambled to his paws and scurried to his corner.

      Mollie glared at the wall as if she could see through to the construction going on outside. She’d asked Birdie to take Chief out of his kennel and into one of the visitation rooms. Though the furnishings were all secondhand donations, the worn brown leather sofas, mismatched end tables and floral area rug had all the touches of a typical living room. Mollie wanted Chief to associate the home-like environment with a safe and happy place.

      Something she was going to have an even harder time accomplishing now. Mollie took a deep breath and forced her own tense muscles to relax. Getting frustrated wouldn’t help. She often felt her own dog, Arti, could tell what kind of a day she’d had before she even walked through the door and kicked off her shoes. She didn’t want poor Chief thinking she was upset with him.

      But despite her best efforts, the loud noise had erased the small progress she’d made. Curled in the corner with his nose practically tucked behind his hind leg, the dog refused to respond.

      Swallowing her disappointment, but reminding herself that changing behavior took time, she slipped from the room and walked down the long hallway toward the main lobby. Thanks to a recent fund-raiser, the Whitaker sisters had plans to spruce up the small space, including updating the furniture and adding some color to the plain beige walls and a new stain treatment to the concrete floors.

      For now, the main bright spot was the small gift shop off to the side where a rainbow of leashes and collars lined the walls in a variety of styles and sizes. The store also offered a selection of bowls and toys and beds. Everything an adopter might need when taking home a new furry friend.

      One of the shelter volunteers was working the front desk, phone tucked against her shoulder as she jotted some notes. “I’m sorry, can you say that again?” the girl asked, pressing her free hand against her ear as the high-pitched whine of a saw filled the air.

      Mollie pushed one of the glass doors open and stepped out onto the front porch. The scent of freshly cut wood drifted on the midmorning breeze, and she followed the strident, no-nonsense sound of Birdie Whitaker’s voice around the side of the building. The sixtysomething shelter co-owner, dressed in a denim jumpsuit over a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, was known for working twice as hard as most people half her age.

      “Is everything okay?” Mollie asked after the woman finished her conversation with the construction foreman.

      Birdie shook her head. “I can’t wait for these repairs to be over. I