Man Scape TASCHENBUCH

DANIEL

I liked sex. I
fucking loved it. Who didn’t? I liked to remember
having it, too. Especially if it involved getting a woman pregnant.

Which I supposedly
did.

Not just anyone, but little Melly Harwood.

I had no idea who she
was, but Ang, the office manager, made her out to be something like the Virgin
Mary. Sweet, serene and absolutely, positively not sinful. Meaning I’d somehow corrupted and ruined her.

I didn’t mind the
idea of corrupting or ruining a woman, or doing both at the same time, as long
as she was into that kind of thing. But a baby? Fuck no.

Several office
voicemails insisted I was responsible for making one.

It had to have been
immaculate conception because I hadn’t fucked any woman in a long time. Yet I couldn’t tell Ang that. No way. I
wasn’t sharing my sex life with a sixty-something who liked to remind me she
used to change my diapers.

Who was this woman
and why was she accusing me? Why was this mysterious and saintly Melly Harwood
telling me I had to take care of my
responsibilities?

Sure, I’d gotten a
woman pregnant once. Accidentally. Over twenty years ago the summer after high
school graduation. And I’d taken all the
responsibility for that. Why would I start over with a baby now? I was forty
fucking years old. An empty nester. Retired business owner. A free man ready to
get out of Montana for a while. In fact, my flight to Scotland left in four
days.

I was supposed to be
relaxed in my newfound retirement. I had money and free time and it was time to
enjoy both.

Until I got those
messages. I always took care of my responsibilities. Always. I couldn’t be laid
back, relaxed or leaving the country until this one was resolved.

That was why I was
pissed as I stomped out of the library and called Ang. No way were my plans
being derailed because of this, of a woman accusing me of something I sure as
hell didn’t do. If she wanted something from me, like money, this was the worst way to go about it
with me.

“Pearson Tree and
Landscape Service,” Ang said through the phone in her upbeat and cheerful
voice.

“Where is she?” I
snarled.

“Who?” she asked,
used to my moods. “Melly Harwood?”

“Of course, Melly
Harwood,” I countered, as if I went after crazy women every day. “You know well
enough I left you at the office twenty minutes ago to track her down. You said
she’s the librarian. I’m at the library. She’s not here. Find her.”

“How can I find her?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I
countered. “Use your gossip network or tea spilling club or whatever you call
it and find her.”

Ang humphed through
the phone then put me on hold because she couldn’t argue with the fact that she
could find someone better than a detective or a bloodhound. Horrible jazz
saxophone music filled my ear and I winced. How had I made my customers suffer
listening to that?

Not my problem any
longer.

Waiting, I paced back
and forth across the library’s front entry. A woman with one hand leading a
toddler and carrying a baby seat with the other approached. I opened the door
for her, then went over to the book drop box. I tugged the slot open, shut it.
Opened it. Shut it.

A minute later, she
was back. “She’s at the vet with her dog Fred and–”

“I don’t care about
her dog. I’m more interested in her pussy,” I muttered, the one I never got in.

“What was that?”

I sighed. Hard.
“Nothing. What’s the address?”

She told me.

“Thanks,” I said.
“And tell Deek to replace that God-awful hold music.”

I hung up and cut
across town to the Hunter Valley Veterinary Clinic. The landscape company and
the hold music were my brothers’ problems now.

The bell above the
door chimed as I went inside the clinic. The scent of cleaning products and wet
dog made my nose twitch.

A twenty-something
man in light blue scrubs stood from a chair behind the counter. As he saw me
approach with all kinds of pent-up aggravation, his eyes widened. He took a
slight step back as he tipped his chin back to keep my gaze. That happened all
the time. The trouble with being the size of a lumberjack. And actually being
one.

“May I help you?”

A dog barked
somewhere in the building. An orange cat jumped on the counter and the guy
hooked it with a hand and tucked him into the crook of his arm in a football
hold.

“Melly Harwood?” I
asked.

“Room number three.”

Finally. I headed
down the hall with one mission in mind. Find out what the fuck was going on. I
was leaving town and I didn’t need this kind of entanglement… or headache. It
was déjà vu all over again. This time
though, I wasn’t nineteen and I definitely hadn’t had sex with the woman.

I didn’t bother
knocking on the closed door with the number three on it and burst in.

The action startled
the woman who stood in front of a high metal exam table, a tiny dog standing on
it. It was smaller than a cat. A Pomeranian? Teacup Poodle? I had no clue.
Their heads swiveled and their gazes met mine in unison.

This was little Melly Harwood? She was a
gorgeous redhead who I’d clearly startled because the hand on the back of the
littlest dog I’d ever seen flew to her chest. She stared at me with wide eyes
behind dark glasses.

Holy shit, she was
fucking pretty.