Free The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) by Colleen Collins Page A

used to say, joy is the sign we’re fulfillin’ our dreams.”
    “And I’m not joyful because I’m not fulfilling my dreams. And that joy is deep inside. But brain side, the wall, keeps getting in the way.”
    She snapped her fingers. “Nobody can ever say you aren’t quick, Snooper. Let me give you a tip.”
    “A tip...to help me get to the joy?”
    “Uh-huh. It’s a technique my nanny used to practice. Sometimes I practice it, too, when something’s difficult, sad or it just plain hurts to think about it. Replace the bad thought with a beautiful image. It’s called distractin’ your thoughts. Like, you realize you’re fixating on your P.I. license being gone. Poof! You replace that thought with an image that makes you happy. Like that car of yours.”
    “Think of Phil?”
    “Why not? He might be oversize and a bit cranky, but he never lets you down.”
    One thing about Val, she spoke her mind. Which was one reason that Cammie liked her, although she wasn’t so sure about this whole distracting-oneself-with-happy-thoughts trick. That was a bit too la-la-out-there for her taste.
    On the other hand, she wasn’t wild about being called glum. Cammie had always prided herself on being coolheaded and together, not sulky and petulant, which sounded a lot like glum.
    Maybe it was time to tap on that wall Val kept harping about.
    “I like Phil, but I’d rather think about the Nuggets.”
    Val grinned, held up her hand for a high five. “Whatever cranks your joy, girlfriend.”
    At five o’clock, Cammie’s shift ended at the Cave. In the employees’ locker room, she changed into her casual clothes for her scheduled stint at Dignity House. Tonight she was the girls’ study monitor from six to seven, which meant she babysat them as they did their homework—no cell phones, no iPods, no TV and, unless it had something to do with their homework, no internet. And if any of them had a creative excuse for not doing homework—and Cammie had heard plenty of those—she brought some of her detective novels for them to read, including a well-worn copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Good-bye, which touched on political, social, racial, sexual, even environmental issues. Phil Marlowe was, after all, a gumshoe before his time.
    On her way out the back door of the casino, she found Trazy lying on the cement walkway, fat and furry, lolling in the sun without a care.
    Cammie leaned over to pet the cat. “Enjoying the warmer weather?”
    Lazy Trazy managed a raspy meow.
    “I see that Val replenished your water on her last break. Looks as though you’re set up for the night.” This morning, Cammie had brought some cans of cat food and two bowls—one for food, one for water.
    The cat flopped over, sluggishly half pawed the air as though, if it really had a mind to, it could run or pounce or do something equally amazing.
    “It’s time I take you to the vet,” Cammie whispered, stroking the cat under her chin. “See if you have one of those embedded chips that identifies your owners. If you don’t, I’ll hang up some flyers, see if somebody claims you. Time to get you off the streets.”
    Trazy reached out a paw and touched Cammie’s hand.
    “Am I interrupting?”
    That familiar male voice.
    She stood, met Marc’s eyes. Her heart picked up its beat, drumming like a wanton tom-tom.
    He’d obviously spent some time in the sun. The burnished glow of his skin made his blue eyes more vivid, startling. His short-sleeve shirt, its yellow color reminding her of aspen leaves, had obviously been recently purchased as it still had crease marks.
    “Marc, I—” Hell, she didn’t know what to say. Even if she did, she wasn’t sure she could speak around the pounding pulse in her throat.
    “Let me talk first, please.”
    She nodded.
    “I’m sorry.”
    She did a double take. Not that the man didn’t know how to smooth over rough edges in a discussion—he was, after all, Mr. Cool in the courtroom—but she hadn’t