LITMIR.BIZ

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to the socially awkward young man who is clearly just trying to do his job. Still, he’s like a little kid when mom and dad are arguing. He can sense the tension.

      “Smells great in here,” the young guy tries, shuffling from one foot to another. “Like my Granny’s on Christmas.” I offer him a wan smile, and he smiles back and breathes out with huge relief. “Good! Great! Let’s fix that machine.”

      Henry steps aside while I lead Blake! (As his nametag proclaims) to the computer, and explain my issues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry surveying my abode. He peeks around the corner to the kitchen. I watch him eyeball the cooling tartlets with interest.

      “Do not touch those!” I hiss quietly, irritated to have been interrupted during my computer consultation. Who does he think he is, pawing through my house?

      Like the commander of a starship, Blake has lowered himself into my chair and has taken charge of his domain. He finally looks comfortable in his own skin as he flicks switches, and plugs machinery into sockets.

      Henry ignores me, pushing aside one of the curtains and looking at the windowsill. He’s pretending to be all CSI about it, picking up a framed photo of Hudson and nodding his head, but I think he’s just nosey. “Psst! Why are you even here?” I whisper, trying not to distract Blake. The faster the Geek Squad expert gets my computer up and running, the better off I’ll be.

      “Go!” I whisper-hiss, making huge motions with my arms indicating shoving Henry out the door. “Just go.”

      He mouths “No!” then picks up notebook I left lying on the arm of the couch. It has thoughts on favorite recipes and lists of dishes that I want to cook next, along with perfect menus for different occasions. “Put that down,” I mouth, pointing to the couch. “Down!” I feel like I’m talking to Hudson.

      “Lamb chops for Valentine’s Day,” he mumbles, tilting his head in consideration. “Maybe,” he says, bobbing his head up and down, reading the pages. I tear across the room, snatching my notebook from his hands. “Give me that!” He holds up his hands in surrender, and is off to the next corner, poking and prodding.

      Comfortable in his wheelhouse, Blake continues typing in long strings of characters. From time to time, he roots in his messenger bag for items to plug into ports in my computer that I wasn’t aware existed. I leave him to it, and turn my attention to His Snobby Highness.

      “Now, if you’d go and get yourself dressed, I can supervise your computer technician.” He makes a big show of averting his eyes from my worn tracksuit.

      “I am dressed,” I huff. “I’m in my own home looking for my lost dog, not gearing up to walk the red carpet at the Oscars.”

      He looks me up and down. “Very well.” He looks unsatisfied, but shakes it off. “Let’s get down to business, then, shall we?” He’s halfway through slipping off his coat, when I pull him aside.

      “Don’t get comfortable. You aren’t staying.” I whisper so as not to make it even more awkward for the boy.

      “To the contrary, Miss Bell, I will indeed be staying as your aunt has given me explicit instructions that I’m not to report back to The Russian Tea Room, or for that matter, any of our soundstages, party venues, or offices, until I locate your pet. It is now my job.” Underneath his closely trimmed beard, I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. His blue eyes are blazing, but other than that, his face is placid. “So calm down.”

      There is nothing, and I mean nothing, I hate more than being told to calm down when I’m already calm. Or even if I’m not calm. Jot this down, it’s a sure way to make me punch you in the nose. I ball up my fists. “Get out,” I say. “Leave.”

      “You need help, and I’ve been dispatched to offer it. Relax, and put yourself in my capable hands.”

      Relax! That’s even worse than calm down. “I have hands of my own, as you can see.” I show him my quivering fists. “I’ve been on my own since I was twelve. I’m good. I’ve got this. You can go now.”

      I pull out my phone and stab in a text to Aunt Miranda.

       Dear Aunt M, I appreciate the offer of help, but am fine on my own.

       You can tell HW to come back to the office.

       If I need to talk to you, I can contact you directly. I really hope to find H today. x C

      “Listen to me, Charlotte,” he says in a soft voice full of urgency, “you haven’t ‘got this.’” I don’t even raise my eyes from my phone. I just keep on texting. “Look at me,” he says. Begrudgingly, I do. He nods in Blake’s direction. “Case in point: Your big plan of the day is to run off some scrapbook-level flyers and…and what? Attach them to telephone poles with pushpins? Slide them under the doors of the people in your neighborhood? Maybe wear a sandwich board declaring ‘I’ve lost my dog’?”

      I’m starting to sweat around my hairline. Maybe I haven’t fully thought this through.

      “What do you know?” I fire off, knowing I sound like a testy adolescent. I need to get Hudson back and I’ve been doing everything I know how. “How dare you…you snobby asshat, come into my home and tell me I don’t know how to find my dog? I’m figuring it out.”

      Henry Wentworth puts both hands on my shoulders, and fixes my eyes with those Aegean blue lasers of his.

      “You’ll burn hours and hours of precious time, and to no avail in the end. Meanwhile, your dog is God-knows-where, far from home and hearth. Now, allow Bill Gates, Jr. to finish up, and I’ll come up with a real plan of action.” I hear the buzz of a phone. Henry sighs loudly. “Hang on, I have to check this.”

      He pulls out his phone and listens to the message. From my vantage point, all I hear is a high-pitched yelling. Is it Aunt Miranda? I strain to hear, but he sees me listening and turns his body away from me. His face closes off, then blooms into an expression of irritation. I scrutinize him, thinking about my next move.

      On the one hand, I don’t trust this pontifical, self-important Englishman, emphasis on ‘man’. Being treated like the proverbial fragile little lady has always chapped my ass. Add to that his ulterior motive: He’ll say or do anything to get back under Aunt Miranda’s wing, where the action is. Come to think of it, Aunt Miranda shouldn’t trust him either. I’m getting a real All About Eve vibe from this one.

      On the other hand, if I need to swallow my ego to Huddie back, so be it. I owe it to him to take advantage of every opportunity, no matter how distasteful.

      “Charlotte, please,” Henry says in a low voice. His posture has softened. “Your dog could be shivering on the street somewhere, cold and scared. And I hardly want to hint at it, but people have been known to steal animals.” A tiny cry escapes my throat.

      “Shh.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Stay with me. The faster we find him, the better. Wouldn’t you rather he were here, being fed home-cooked morsels off your plate, and shoving you over in the bed till you’re teetering on the edge while he snores peacefully?”

      Oh, Huddie. I let my eyes drift to the floor. I don’t want Henry to see my fear.

      “All right, ma’am,” Blake breaks in, standing up and gathering his equipment. “You’re all set to print and scan, and I ran some diagnostics and cleaned off some malware. Today’s visit is $349.99. You should bring her into the shop soon if you want us to run updates.”

      “Never mind, that won’t be necessary” Henry says, brandishing a credit card. Before I can intervene, the card is run through a swiper. “I can do the updates myself.”

      “Wait a minute,” I begin.

      “That will be all for today, thank you,” Henry breaks in.

      “Well, great then!” says the boy, moving toward the door. “If there’s anything your husband

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