Larissa Learns to Breathe by Ruby Laska Page A

girlfriend? A hookup? She’d taken note, even through her haze, of all the pretty young women who’d greeted him last night, and she couldn’t blame them: even among the construction staff, many of whom sported hard bodies and tans, Tommy stood out. He had that silky long hair, for one thing, and those green eyes with their golden flecks. Those incredibly white teeth and—
    â€œGo away,” she moaned, quietly enough that any nubile young women wouldn’t hear her. She crept out of bed and crawled on her hands and knees over to the window, where she could peep above the sill and, hopefully, find out who was out there without being seen.
    Whap.
    Larissa yelped as a dark form appeared in the window, then felt herself go weak with relief when she realized it was only Bluebell. Hearing her exclamation, the dog put its paws on the windowsill and barked joyously. Larissa tugged the window up and regarded the animal, who didn’t seem to hold a grudge about any of her behavior so far.
    â€œHush,” she said. “Pipe down.”
    But that just made Bluebell more excited. She ran in a circle one way and then the other before coming back and scratching at the glass.
    â€œCan’t you just go hang out with your master? Down in the honeymoon hut?”
    A terrible thought occurred to her. What if, like Lassie, Bluebell had come for her because Tommy was hurt? What if the tides had come in, stranding Tommy on the roof of the cottage as angry waves crashed all around, waiting to drag him into the undertow and drown him? Or he might have fallen and hit his head on that Indiana limestone, and even now his lifeblood might be seeping into the white sands.
    She pulled up the window all the way and Bluebell leapt over the sill and bounded into the room, nearly knocking her over before bolting through the house to the front door. The dog certainly seemed agitated. Was she trying to show Larissa the way?
    â€œOkay, okay,” she muttered, slipping on the flat shoes she’d worn the day before and cursing herself for not packing a single pair of sensible sneakers. She was halfway to the door when she turned around and raced to the bathroom, grabbed her toothbrush and squeezed a dollop of toothpaste on it. “I’m sorry,” she called to Bluebell before plunging it between her teeth. “I can’t save him with morning breath!”
    After a cursory scrub Larissa took a detour through the kitchen to grab a knife—in case the emergency was that Tommy was being held captive by a madman, or slowly squeezed to death by a giant squid—and burst out the front door with Bluebell on her heels. She ran down the path to the beach as fast as she could, scuffing her shoes on rocks and roots. Only when she reached the steep incline down the hill did she realize that the dog had taken off in a different direction.
    Well, maybe now Bluebell was going to get the doctor. Or the fire captain. Larissa knew that both posts had already been staffed; maybe Tommy had taught his dog to summon fire and rescue. One of her clients had a Belgian Malinois that had worked as a search and rescue dog for the FBI before retirement; it was one of the only dogs Larissa cared for who actually obeyed her, though Camper did so with a pained air, as though it was beneath him to work with amateurs.
    She scrambled down the hill, hoping Bluebell would hurry back with someone who knew CPR. Larissa had taken the certification course twice and failed both times. It was just so much to remember, and emergencies—even fake ones that happened to traffic school dummies—made her nervous.
    â€œTommy!” she called, rounding the door of the little shack. Then she remembered there might be an intruder with him. “I’m armed!” she yelled belatedly, lowering her voice into what she hoped was an intimidating, booming register.
    She hesitated at the door of the hut and peeked around the corner, ready to retreat