Chapter 6
Nick opened the door as Merry loped up the villa steps with a small canvas bag dangling over her shoulder and the filthy dog in her arms. The animal was no bigger than your average teddy bear and appeared malnourished. Some kind of fluffy ankle biter, he supposed, age anyone’s guess. Nick hoped the animal wasn’t infested with fleas or worse. The dog’s soulful eyes peered at him through matted fur, and his heart softened.
“I wonder what breed that dog is underneath the dirty mop.” He considered petting the animal but thought better of it until it had seen a little soap and water. “And why didn’t you call? I told you I’d come out and help you when you got here.” He stepped back to allow her entry. The dog squirmed, and Merry set it down, poised to grab it if it trotted off.
“No point in both of us getting wet. I tossed a few things into this bag for overnight and left my carryon in the trunk. It’s raining so hard right now, I thought—no!” Merry cried out as the dog gave itself a mighty shake. Dirt and rainwater flew, speckling Nick and the hardwood floor. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” she said, and covered her mouth with her hands.
Nick looked down at himself and laughed, because there was nothing else to do. He was spotted with dirt and rain from the knees down, and a second round assaulted his legs when the dog shook again.
“Oh, Nick—” Merry began, her horrified expression changing as nervous laughter bubbled from her mouth. The single dimple in her cheek peeked at Nick, and he shook his head and laughed.
“Your dog looks like a miniature Wookie now, and she needs a bath. Come on with me. You can shower if you want, change into something dry. Does your beastie have a name?”
“Not yet.” Merry toed off her ruined shoes beside the front door and followed Nick down the hall. “I’ve been calling her ‘little girl.’ She’s so sweet, she must belong to somebody. Maybe she’s chipped. Hopefully this storm will have passed by tomorrow and I can take her to the vet without getting drenched.”
“It’s supposed to rain all night, but the powers that be say tomorrow will be mostly clear.” He stopped and indicated a room to his right. “Here’s the second bedroom. Let’s get you a towel to dry off.”
“I’ll bathe the dog first,” she said.
“I’ll help. We may have to double team her.”
After two soap-ups and a lengthy rinse, Merry’s orphaned dog turned into a ball of white fluff.
“I wonder what kind of dog she is,” Merry said, staring at the dog which was now curled up in her lap and emitting soft snores through a black button nose.
“Mm. Bichon Frise or Havanese, I’d bet. I’m sure the vet can tell you,” Nick said. “At least she’s housebroken. I was surprised when she scratched to go out.”
“And relieved that she did, in spite of the rain. I was worried she’d make a mess in here, but she’s behaved like a perfect lady.” She stroked the dog’s head. “So you think she’s a Bichon Frise or a—what did you say? Havanese? I’ve never even heard of that breed.”
“Yes, Havanese. National dog of Cuba.”
“How do you know so much about dog breeds?”
Nick stared at her. He knew about various dog breeds because he’d done some research for one of his Pirates books. He covered with a short laugh. “Hey, just because I’m a sports fanatic doesn’t mean I’m not interested in other things.”
“Okay, so tell me three things unrelated to sports that are of interest to Nick Brubaker,” Merry prompted him.
“Hm. Let me think a minute.” Nick’s gaze held Merry’s as he considered what to share with her, and he grinned when her cheeks reddened beneath his perusal. She tucked her hair behind her ears and dropped her focus to the dog. Nick watched her, waiting for her dimple to put in an appearance. “Well, I’m a history buff. Also, I like to go fishing, even though I’m terrible at it. And I love live theater, more than movies or concerts.”
“Broadway?” Her head snapped up and there was that dimple that heated him up every time he saw it.
He nodded. “Yep. I go every time I’m in New York. Last thing I saw was Hamilton. Your turn now. Three things.”
“Oh, gosh.” She tucked her hair behind her ears again and gifted Nick with another flash of her dimple. “Okay. Well, I’m addicted to those forensic shows on TV. Not the fictional ones, but the ones that solve real crimes with the use of today’s technology. Um,”—she bit her lip, drawing Nick’s attention from her dimple to her mouth—“let’s see. I’m a foodie, and I’ll try anything as long as it isn’t a bug.”
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve eaten?” Nick asked, forcing his gaze and his mind from her delectable mouth to her morning-glory eyes.
“Medama,” she said without hesitation and shuddered. “I was in Japan on a college trip. No one told me I was eating tuna eyeballs.”
“Tuna—eyeballs? That sounds truly awful.”
“It tasted like squid. If no one had told me what it really was, I wouldn’t have known. But once I found out—” She shuddered again.
“Okay, that’s only two. You still owe me a third thing.”
Merry stared at him for a moment while she considered. “You can’t tell anyone,” she said. “Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“The Pukefaced Pirates of Fartbutt Hollow. It’s a series of books for kids, so you’ve probably never even heard of them. I love those books. Not the farts and burps and all the stupid bodily function stuff that sends gads of preteen boys into fits of giggling ecstasy. It’s the stories. If you read them, really read them—I mean, dig down past the silly, funny stuff—there is real heartbreak there. There’s an odd darkness in them that’s compelling. I—I don’t know how to explain it. But I love those books.” Merry shook her head as if clearing cobwebs. “In some ways they’re too dark for children, in my opinion. But I guess”—she shrugged—“kids gloss over the darkness and go for the light, you know? Kids are pretty spectacular that way.” When Nick said nothing, Merry laughed her confession away. “Ridiculous, right? To love the books when I can’t stand the jackass author. I’m a special kind of crazy.”
Nick’s throat tightened. He hadn’t lied to her, but he hadn’t told her the truth either. What would she say if she knew that he was that jackass author?
Guilt trickled through him, and he reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn’t tell her about Scurvy Rickets. Number one on the list was his contract.
He’d never broken his contract, never told anyone who he was. And as much as he wanted to tell Merry now, he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Though he felt as if he’d known her a lifetime instead of a day, the truth was that he barely knew her at all, didn’t know if he could trust her to keep it quiet. She might like his books, but she had made it clear she did not like Scurvy Rickets. And if he came clean and this—thing, or whatever it was between them—went south, she might use the knowledge against him and blab it to the world. His instinct told him she was trustworthy, but how could he know? Underneath all that sunshine she might be vindictive as hell.
Yeah, asshole, keep telling yourself that. Nick forced himself to smile, though guilt prowled through him.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” she prompted.
“You aren’t crazy,” he said at last, tamping down the guilt. He was impressed and strangely touched that she had seen through the jokes and silliness of Pirates down to the nitty-gritty. He wasn’t certain anyone else ever had. “It sounds as if you have some insight into those books. You ready for some dinner? I’ve got canned soup, oatmeal from a packet, and popcorn.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said. “Need any help?”
“No thanks. I can burn our dinner all by myself, thank you. Besides, you’re being used as a mattress right now.” He pet the fur between the dog’s ears and smiled at Merry. “She looks very comfy. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Alone in the kitchen he breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated himself on keeping his mouth shut.
The reality was simple: He had no intention of risking his publishing future on blue eyes and a sexy dimple no matter how attracted he was to the woman they belonged to. He glanced over the long, granite-topped bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and watched Merry coo at the dog.
No doubt about it. He was doing the smart thing.
And he’d keep telling himself that until he believed it was true.