“Okay, Moe, down. I mean it. That’s enough.” He didn’t expect the dog to listen. He always tried; Moe never listened. But it seemed the right thing to do as he gripped the dog around the barrel of his belly.

He had to lean down—well, maybe not quite as far as he did. But she had the prettiest blue eyes, even when they were shooting daggers at him. “Hi. Nice to see you again.”

Muscles jumped in her jaw when she clenched it. “Get him off!”

“Working on it.”

“Hey, Moe!” Dana shouted. “Cookie!”

That did the trick. Moe leaped over the crate, nipped the cookie out of the hand Dana held in the air, then landed. It might have been a graceful landing if he hadn’t skidded several feet over the uncarpeted floor.

“Works like a charm.” Dana lifted her arm. Moe loped back, the cookie already history, and insinuated his bulk under it.

“Wow. He’s really a big dog.” Zoe eased over, held out a hand, then grinned when Moe licked it lavishly. “Friendly.”

“Pathologically friendly.” Malory brushed at the dog hair that had transferred itself to her once pristine linen shirt. “That’s the second time today he’s landed on me.”

“He likes girls.” Flynn took off his sunglasses, tossed them on the crate. “You never told me your name.”

“Oh, so you’re the idiot and his dog. Should’ve known. This is Malory Price,” Dana said. “And Zoe McCourt. My brother, Flynn.”

“Are you Michael Flynn Hennessy?” Zoe crouched to stroke Moe’s ear, looked up at Flynn under her bangs. “M. F. Hennessy, with the Valley Dispatch?”

“Guilty.”

“I’ve read a lot of your articles, and I never miss your column. I liked the one last week on the proposed ski lift up on Lone Ridge and the environmental impact.”

“Thanks.” He reached down for a cookie. “Is this a book club meeting, and will there be cake?”

“No. But if you’ve got a minute, maybe you could sit down.” Dana patted the floor. “We’ll tell you what it is.”

“Sure.” But he sat on the couch. “Malory Price? The Gallery, right?”

“Not anymore,” she grimaced.

“I’ve been in a couple times, must’ve missed you. I don’t cover arts and entertainment. I see the error of my ways.”

His eyes, she noted, were the same color as the walls. That lazy-river green. “I doubt we have anything to offer that could complement your decor.”

“You hate the couch, right?”

“ ‘Hate’ is much too mild a word.”

“It’s very comfortable.”

He glanced over at Zoe’s comment and smiled. “It’s a napping couch. You nap, your eyes are closed, so you don’t care what it looks like. Celtic Mythology,” he read, angling his head to read the titles on the books scattered over the crate. “Myths and Legends of the Celts.” He picked one up, turned it in his hands as he studied his sister. “What gives?”

“I told you I was going to that cocktail party at Warrior’s Peak?”