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let Barney out and then head back to Garrett’s dry cleaners.
    She would have remembered, too, if she hadn’t gotten caught up with that stupid New Year’s Eve party. Trying to put together something that elaborate on such short notice had proved to be nearly impossible. For her anyway. That’s why she’d called George at Cresthollow Country Club. George would take care of everything. It was the least he could do after stealing her fiancé. At least that’s what she told him.
    She almost smiled at his response before reality intruded. Relieved the party was in good hands, she’d finally relaxed, and before she knew it, her eyes were closing during a rerun of Friends and she’d fallen asleep.
    Ugh . . . why am I always so scatterbrained? It’s not like I don’t try to be responsible.
    She returned to her search. I had my bag when I came in. At least, I’m pretty sure I did. Could I have left it in the car? She moved around the couch and her foot caught on a familiar leather handle. Oh, thank you. She ripped the bag from beneath the coffee table, shoved her hand into it, and pulled out the plastic bag containing Garrett’s shirt.
    A pang of guilt assailed her insides, turning her stomach. “Okay. It’s not as bad as it seems. I’m sure he probably has other shirts. Right?” She waited patiently for Barney to answer while she wracked her brain for a solution. “A lot of help you are, mister.”
    Then a thought struck her. There had to be an all-night cleaners. There was an all-night everything. She flopped onto the couch, propped her feet on the table, and yanked her computer onto her lap. A quick search told her there were none. “Ugh . . .” Frustration beat at her and she pressed her fists to her eyes, imagining Garrett running to the dry cleaner’s in the morning and being met with a blank stare when he asked for his shirt. Garrett had trusted her to do this and she’d screwed it up. Why did she always mess everything up? It wasn’t like she didn’t try to do things right. She did. A weight on her leg had her lifting her gaze and staring into Barney’s soulful eyes. She heaved in a deep breath before letting it out in a sigh and reaching to pet Barney’s head. A tear dripped down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away and pushed up from the couch.
    â€œCome on, boy. Let’s see if we can fix this.” She grabbed the shirt from where she’d tossed it onto the couch, quickly glanced at the tag, and headed for the kitchen. “Okay, it says dry-clean only.” Barney’s nails clicked against the hardwood as he trailed after her. “But they probably just put that because it’s the best way to clean it. It’s not like it’s the only way to clean it. I mean, you go out in the rain and your shirt gets wet. Nothing happens to it, right?”
    Barney sat beside his bowl, looking hopeful.
    â€œNot now. You’ll eat later.”
    He whined.
    She lowered the shirt to stare at him. “Can’t you see I’m having a crisis here?”
    He held her stare for an instant, snorted, then dropped down onto the floor and rested his head on his paws. She shrugged and figured past experience had told him this could take a while.
    She pulled open the door to the small laundry room and paused for a split second, briefly contemplating washing the shirt by hand. Ignoring her concerns, she lifted the cover of the washing machine and tossed in the shirt. When it was done, she’d hang it to dry and then iron it. He’d never know the difference. She’d just call him in a few hours and offer to drop the shirt off, instead of letting him pick it up at the cleaners. She set the cycle for delicate and turned to Barney. “All right, boy. We’re not going for a walk at four in the morning, so you may as well go back to sleep.”
    Barney popped up and wagged his