Nine
The dog didn’t like the leash. The minute Naomi snapped it on, he pulled, tugged, tried to turn around and bite it. She ended up dragging him out of the house, using a Milk-Bone as a bribe.
He also didn’t like the vet’s office. The minute she got him into the waiting room, he quivered, shook, strained to get back out the door. A grizzled old man sat in one of the plastic chairs with a grizzled old mutt sprawled at his feet. The old mutt’s lips curled as if in disdain. A cat in a carrier stared out with feral green eyes.
It was hard to blame the dog for dropping down on the floor, refusing to budge. He trembled the whole time Naomi filled out the paperwork, even when the old man took the dog, who walked obediently even if he cast a look back—disdain again—as they went into the back.
While they waited, and Naomi had to be grateful they’d squeezed her in, a woman came in with a red-gold ball of fur and fluff. The fluffball stopped dead when it spotted Naomi’s stray, then went into a wild series of high-pitched yips punctuated by throaty little growls.
The dog did his best to crawl into Naomi’s lap.
“Sorry! Consuela’s very high-strung.” The woman plucked up Consuela and tried to quiet and soothe her while Naomi struggled to keep the dog’s nose out of her crotch.
When they called her name, the relief was so huge she didn’t mind being forced to half drag, half carry her charge into the exam room.
He quivered in there, too, and looked at her with such abject terror that she crouched down to hug him.
“Come on now, pull yourself together.”
He whined, licked, then laid his head on her shoulder.
“Somebody’s in love. Alice Patton.”
The vet, maybe five-two with a sturdy, compact build, had her gray-streaked brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail and black, square-framed glasses over eyes of soft, quiet brown. She came in briskly, wearing a short white lab coat over T-shirt and jeans, and crouched down.
“Naomi Carson.”
“It’s nice to meet you. And this is the handsome guy you picked up on the side of the road.”
“I made up some flyers to help find his owner. Your receptionist took a few.”
“We’ll put them out, but I haven’t seen this boy before. Let’s get him on the scale first, then we’ll see what’s what.”
He didn’t much care for the idea, but they weighed him in at seventy-one pounds.
“He could use another ten. Definitely undernourished. Clean, though.”
“He wasn’t. We bathed him. Twice.”
“Xander helped you out with him, right?” And to Naomi’s astonishment, Alice hefted seventy-one pounds of trembling dog onto the exam table.
“Yes, he came along a couple minutes after I found the dog.”
“Put Milo’s collar on him, I see.”
“Milo? Was that his dog?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Like her eyes, her voice was soft and calm as she ran her hands over the dog. “Great dog, Milo. Cancer came on fast and hard. We did everything we could, but . . . He had fifteen good, happy years, and that’s what counts. This one here, he’s about two, and he’s been on the road awhile from the looks of his paws.”
She got out her light, slipped him a small treat before examining his ears. “I’m going to give you some drops for his ears.”
“Drops?”
“He’s got an infection brewing in the left one. And I’ve got some meds you’ll need to give him for worms.”
“Worms?”
“Stool sample you brought in. He’s got worms, but the meds should clear that up quick enough. I’m going to give him a test for heartworm, and I’d like to do a titer to gauge if he needs shots. Seeing as he’s a stray, I’m going to discount all this for you.”
“I appreciate it. He’s got to belong to somebody, right?”
“Hasn’t been neutered.” Alice stepped away, got a syringe. “As he’s a mixed breed, it’s not likely he has all his works because someone intends to breed him. He’s seriously underweight. Go on and stroke his head, distract him a little. He’s got intestinal worms,” Alice continued, as she drew blood. “The pads of all four paws are raw. I’m going to be able to tell in about twenty minutes or so if he’s had shots for rabies and distemper, if he has heartworm. But he’s got a little mange, and ticks and fleas have been at him.”
“Fleas.”
“Dead now, from the flea bath you gave him. I’m the only vet in town, and he hasn’t been in here before. Wouldn’t be the first time somebody dumped a dog they decided they didn’t want.”
“Oh.” Naomi looked down to where, despite the needles, the tests, the dog stared into her eyes with absolute trust.
“I’ll call the vets I know in the area, and we’ll put up your flyer, contact the shelters. It’s possible he got lost, and someone’s been looking for him.”
Naomi clung to the possibility.
It took more than an hour altogether, an unfortunate round of shots, though the dog handled them without more than a look of puzzlement. She left with a bag of pills, drops, pamphlets, written instructions, and a dog-sized hole in her credit card.
Reeling, she hunted up Xander’s garage.
It was bigger than she’d imagined. Cars and trucks scattered around a lot, some of them—such as the hatchback with the crunched front fender—obviously waiting for repairs.
One building about the size of a Quonset hut looked like it held offices. Another spread in a long backward L with the front bay doors open wide. The dog still didn’t like the leash, but she was onto him now, and shortened up her grip on it.
She intended to try the offices, but the dog pulled and bulled his way toward the open doors and the noise.
She heard the whoosh-thump of an air compressor, a steady banging, and Walk the Moon advising everyone to shut up and dance.
She’d spent a lot of time on the road, so she’d been in her share of garages. The sounds, the smells (grease, oil), the sights (tools, machines, car guts) seemed fairly usual. But they apparently fascinated the dog, who strained on the leash until he got inside.
Then his tail wagged like a flag in the breeze.
He’d obviously scented Xander over the motor oil, gas, lubes, and grease guns, and let out a happy, greeting bark.
Xander stood under a sedan on a lift doing whatever mechanics do to underbellies, Naomi decided. He wore scarred motorcycle boots and faded jeans with a hole in the knee and a dirty red rag hanging out of the back pocket. She couldn’t figure out how he made the look sexy.
“Hey, big guy.” He stuck the tool he’d used in his other back pocket, then crouched to greet the delighted dog. “You look better than you did yesterday.” He glanced up at Naomi. “You always look good.”
“We just came from the vet.”
“How’d he do?”
“He tried to crawl inside me in the waiting room because he was terrified of a Pomeranian. But she did have attitude. He has an ear infection and worms, and I have a bag full of pills and drops and instructions. He had to have a half million tests, followed by shots as the whatever-the-hell-it-is was low and he probably hasn’t had the shots before. He doesn’t have heartworm, so yay. And he needs to gain weight. I have dog vitamins, for God’s sake.
“Plus.”
She dug in her purse, took out the vet bill, held it out.
Xander said, “Ouch.”
“And this is the discounted, Good Samaritan rate.”
“Well, it’s his first, and he needed it. I’m good for half.”
“It’s not the money, though okay yeah, ouch; it’s the very strong sense I get that in her opinion nobody’s looking for him. What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Looks like you’re doing it.”
A man in gray coveralls and a gray cap with the garage’s logo wandered out and plugged coins into the soda machine along the wall. “That Chevy’s looking good as new, boss. Better.”
“Will it be ready by four?”
“She’ll be ready.”
“I’ll tell Syl.”
The dog tugged on the leash, and as Naomi had loosened her grip, he slipped free to wag his way to the new guy.
“Hey, boy. Your dog’s got a sweet face, ma’am.”
“He’s not mine. He’s not mine,” she said almost desperately to Xander, who only shrugged.
“Want another dog, Pete?”
“You know I would, but Carol would skin me. Nice dog,” he added, then walked off while the dog wandered around sniffing at everything.
“How’d he sleep?”
“What? The dog? Fine. I woke up at five because he was standing by the bed staring at me—and scared the crap out of me.”
“So he’s housebroken.”
“I guess. So far anyway, but—”
“You live a ways from town,” Xander continued. “A dog’s good security.”
“I’m having an alarm system installed.”
“A dog’s good company,” he shot back.
“I like solitude.”
“You’re a hard sell, Naomi.”
The dog walked back, tail wagging, with a rag hanging out of his mouth and happy eyes as he brought it to Naomi.
“He loves you.”
“Because he brought me a filthy rag he found on the floor.”
“Yeah. You’ll get used to it. Meantime, I’ll get you half that bill, and I’ll keep asking around if anyone’s missing him or interested in taking him.”
She dug into her purse again and came out with the flyer she’d printed. “Put this up.”
Xander studied it. “Nice shot of him.”
“I have to go get some work done. I haven’t done anything but dog all morning.”
“You could ask me to dinner.”
“Why would I?”
“Then you’d have done something else, and I’ll give him his evening meds. You said you can cook.”
She gave him a long, cool look. “You’re not after a meal.”
“Man’s gotta eat.”
“I don’t have dishes, or chairs, or a table. I’m not going to sleep with you, and I am not keeping this dog.” Annoyed with him, with herself, she snatched the leash and began to pull the dog out of the bay.
“You like to gamble, Naomi?”
She looked over her shoulder, still dragging the dog. “No.”
“Too bad, because I’d bet you every bit you just said’s going to change.”
The hell it would, she told herself.
She didn’t realize until she got home that the dog still had the disgusting rag. When she tried to get it from him, he decided she wanted to play tug. In the end, she gave up and sat on the top step of her front porch, the dog with the disgusting rag beside her. And the noise of saws and hammers behind.
“What have I done? Why didn’t I just pitch a tent in the woods? Why do I have a big house full of all these people? Why do I have a dog I have to medicate?”
Adoringly, he dropped the wet, greasy rag in her lap.
“Perfect. Just perfect.”
—
He went with her when she climbed down the steep, jumbled path to the shoreline. She’d been certain the dog would stay, hang out with the crew, but he’d insisted on going out when she did. Next time, she’d sneak out.
Still, she found he didn’t get in the way as she found her shots. Even the one of the dark purple starfish shining in a tidal pool. In fact, after a brief exploration, the dog seemed content to doze in the sun as long as she stayed in sight.
Just as he seemed content to curl up nearby when she sat at her desk working, or worked in her mat room.
If she went downstairs, the dog followed. If she went up, he climbed right up after.
When the house was quiet again, she wondered if dogs could have abandonment issues.
He didn’t like the ear drops, and that was a battle—but she won. She knew from Kong the best way to get meds into a dog, and disguised the pills in rolled slices of cheese.
When she sat out on the deck eating her dinner of a grilled cheese sandwich, he ate his—and didn’t bolt it down as if starved this time.
And when she got into bed with her laptop to spend the last hour of her day looking for faucets and showerheads, the dog curled into his bed as if he’d done so all his life.
At five in the morning she woke with a start, the dog’s eyes gleaming at her, his doggy breath in her face.
Xander sent his half of the vet bill with Kevin, along with the message that he’d split the follow-up, too.
Two days later, he showed up himself with another bag of dog food, another rawhide bone, and the biggest box of Milk-Bones she’d ever seen.
She wondered if he’d timed it to arrive minutes after the crew left, or if it was just coincidence. But it made the dog happy, and he spent some time roughhousing with him.
“He’s getting some energy back.” Xander winged a tennis ball so the dog could chase it like it was gold.
“Nobody’s responded to the flyers. Nothing from any of the vets or shelters.”
“You’re going to have to face it, Slim. You’ve got yourself a dog. What’s his name?”
“I’m not naming him.” If she named him, she was finished.
“What do you call him?”
“The dog.”
Xander winged the ball again when the dog retrieved it, and shook his head. “Have a heart.”
“Having a heart’s what got me into this. If I keep him any longer, I have to have him neutered.”
Xander gave the dog a pitying look. “Yeah. Sorry about that, pal. You should try out some names.”
“I’m not going to—” She broke off. Why argue? “Alice said your dog was Milo. Where’d you get the name?”
“Milo Minderbinder.”
“Catch-22? Everybody gets a share?”
“Yeah. I’d just read it, and the pup, he just looked like he’d have all the angles. Name’s gotta fit. Are you going to ask me in?”
“I am not. Nothing’s changed.”
“It’s early days yet,” he said, then turned as she did at the sound of an approaching vehicle. “Expecting anybody?”
“No.”
The dog barked, raced up to stand beside Naomi.
“You’ve got a guard dog there.”
“I can guard myself just fine.” And her hand went into her pocket, closed over the folding knife.
The big truck lumbered up the hill—the big truck with New York plates.
The driver—young, sharp-eyed—leaned out the window. “Naomi Carson?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry we’re so late in the day. We got a little turned around.”
“I didn’t order anything from New York. Did you drive cross-country?”
“Yes, ma’am. Me and Chuck did it in fifty-five hours, twenty-six minutes.” He hopped out of the truck and gave the dog a pat while his companion hopped out the other side.
“Why?” Naomi asked.
“Sorry?”
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“Delivering your bed.”
“I didn’t order a bed.”
“Shoot. All this way and we forgot. No, ma’am, you didn’t order it. It’s a gift, sent by Seth Carson and Harry Dobbs. We’re to get it here, put it where you want it, and set it up. They paid for the full white-glove delivery.”
“When?”
“A little more than fifty-five hours and twenty-six minutes ago, I guess you could say.” He grinned again. “There’s a couple packages in the back, too. Wrapped. It’s a hell of a bed, ma’am.”
The one called Chuck handed her a clipboard with the order sheet. She recognized the name of the furniture store her uncles patronized.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Want some help with it?” Xander asked.
The driver gave his shoulders a roll, and Xander a look of pure gratitude. “It’s one big mama, so we could use it.”
As it was heavily wrapped for shipping, Naomi couldn’t say if it was a hell of a bed, except in size. She carted the packages, one at a time, as the men began the more laborious effort of getting the bed inside and up the stairs.
Since the dog stayed with the men, she got a box cutter and opened the first box. Four king-size pillows—down. In the second, more pillows, a gorgeously simple duvet several perfect shades deeper blue than her walls, with matching shams. In the third, two sets of lovely white-on-white Egyptian cotton sheets, and the handwritten note.
Our girl needs a bed, and one that gives her sweet dreams. We knew it was for you the minute we saw it. We love you, Seth and Harry.
“My men,” she said with a sigh, and carted the first box upstairs.
Since her bedroom was currently chaos and full of other men, and dog, she went back down, got soft drinks out of the fridge, and took them back up.
“’Preciate it. We’ll haul all the wrapping and padding away with it. We’ve got specific instructions. It’s going to take a while to get it put together.”
“Okay.”
“You want it where you got the mattresses, right?”
“I . . . Yes. That’s fine. I need to make a call.”
She left them to it, called home, and spent the next twenty minutes with Seth as Harry was at the restaurant. His pleasure zipped over every mile.
She didn’t tell him she’d narrowed down her choices and styles of bed, had even planned a day trip to Seattle to look some over. Whatever they’d bought her would be treasured just for that.
When she went back into the bedroom she stopped short. They had her mattresses on the frame, had the headboard and footboard on—or heading that way.
“Oh my God.”
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
She looked at the driver—she didn’t know his name—then back at the bed. “It’s gorgeous. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.”
“Wait till we get the posts up.”
Mahogany, she thought, with satinwood crossbanding. Chippendale-style—she hadn’t been raised by Seth and Harry for nothing. The wood tones, rich and lovely, set off the soft colors of the walls. Fretwork legs, and posts high and turned.
If a woman didn’t have sweet dreams in a bed like that, she needed therapy.
“You okay, ma’am?”
She managed to nod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Josh. Josh and Chuck.”
“Josh. I’m fine. You were right. It’s a hell of a bed.”
When they were done, she tipped them generously—the least she could do—and gave them more soft drinks for the road.
When they left, she stood staring at the bed, at the way the early-evening light gleamed on the wood, on the details.
“Some uncles you’ve got,” Xander commented.
“Best ever.”
“Need to cry it out?”
She shook her head, pressed fingers to her eyes. “No. I hate to cry. So useless. I talked to them Sunday. They went right out and found this, then had it shipped all the way out here this way—along with sheets and pillows and bedding. And it’s just right, just exactly right. For me, for the room, for the house.”
She pushed the threat of tears away. “I’m not going to cry. I’m going to cook. I still don’t have dishes or a table. But you can eat what I fix on paper plates outside on the deck. That’s your tip for helping set up the bed.”
“I’ll take it. What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m having wine. I’m feeling sentimental and a little homesick.”
“Got beer?”
“Pretty sure.”
“If you do, I’ll go for that.”
“Okay.” She started out, glanced back at him. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
“Yet.” His smile was easy. And dangerous. “Beer and a dinner’s a start.”
A finish, she thought as the dog trooped down with them.
—
He watched her cook. He’d never seen anybody cook by grabbing things, throwing this thing in a pan, that thing in a skillet. Chopping this up, stirring that in.
The dog watched her, too, and wasn’t subtle about licking his muzzle when the scents started rising.
“What are you making there?”
“We’ll call it Pasta on the Fly.”
She laid olives—fat ones—on a cutting board, smacked them with a flat of the knife she’d been wielding, and popped out the pits. Something else he’d never seen anyone do.
“Don’t those just come in jars without pits?”
“These are Kalamata olives, friend, and they’re worth the extra step. Anything I put in here you don’t like, you eat around.”
“I’m not fussy.”
“Good thing.”
Now she took a hunk of cheese and worked it to a blur over a grater. He’d have asked why she didn’t buy it already grated but figured he knew the answer.
She tossed little tomatoes in the pan, added some sort of herbs, and stirred—even while muttering how she wished the local produce ran to fresh basil.
“I need to get good cookware before Harry sends me that, too.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve got? Looks like it’s working fine to me.”
“Hardware store special. He’d be appalled. I’m a little appalled myself, actually. And I definitely need good knives. Something to add to the list.”
He liked watching her—quick, sure movement. Liked listening to her—a voice that held just the right amount of smoke.
“What else is on the list?”
“Painting the guest rooms I have earmarked for my brother and for my uncles. The one for my grandparents. After that, I think I’ll retire my roller and pan. I don’t like painting.”
“Have the painters paint.”
“I need to buy decent cookware and knives—I can paint two more rooms in this ridiculously big house. And now I have to find furniture worthy of that bed, and so on.”
She drained the pasta—the little tube sort—then added it to the skillet, along with the olives, the cheese. Tossed it all around.
“Plates are in that cupboard there, such as they are, as are paper napkins and a box of plastic forks.”
“Got it.”
She tossed the stuff in the skillet a couple more times, then served it up on the paper plates and added wedges of Italian bread that she’d slathered with butter, sprinkled with herbs, and toasted.
“That looks amazing.”
“It would look better on the plates I ordered, but it’s good enough.” She handed him a plate, took one for herself, and then led the way out. Then she handed him her plate. “Hold this while I feed the dog.”
The dog looked at the kibble she dumped in his bowl, then back at Xander with the two aromatic plates of pasta. His tail drooped, and Xander swore the dog sighed in disappointment.
She sat, eyeing the dog, who eyed her. “This is mine, that’s yours. That’s how it goes.”
“Hard-ass.”
“Maybe.”
Xander sat down and sampled what she’d thrown together magically and a little maniacally in about twenty minutes.
“This is really good. Seriously good.”
“It’s not bad. It’d be better with fresh herbs. I guess I’ll have to plant some.”
It didn’t feel as odd as she’d expected, to sit there, eating pasta with him while the dog—who’d polished off his own bowl—watched them mournfully. Maybe it was the view—that soft hand of dusk gliding pale and purple over water and the green—maybe it was the wine. Either way, she needed to set the line.
“Do you want to know why I’m not going to sleep with you?”
“Yet,” he added. “Is there a list?”
“We can call it that. You live here, and right now, so do I.”
“Right now? You’ve got pots and pans for the right now, but have better ones on your list. It seems to me you’re looking at the down-the-road.”
“Maybe. I’ve never lived in any one place for more than a few months since I left New York. I don’t know if this will stick. Maybe,” she said again, “because it feels right—right now. But in any case, you live here and you’re friends with Kevin and Jenny—long-term, serious friends. We start something—and I’m also not looking to start something—and it gets messed up, your friend and my contractor’s in the middle of it.”
“That’s weak,” Xander said, and went back to the pasta.
“Not from where I’m sitting, in the heart of a construction zone. Plus you’re the only local garage and mechanic, and I might need a mechanic.”
Thoughtfully, he crunched into the bread. “Probably get the work done faster if we’re having sex.”
She laughed, shook her head. “Not if we stop having it, and you’re pissed at me. There’s work, of which I have to do a lot to pay for this house, and everything that goes into it. I don’t have time for sex.”
“There’s always time for sex. Next time, I’ll bring pizza and we can have sex in the time you spent making dinner.”
And thoughtfully, Naomi ate pasta. “That doesn’t speak well of your . . . stamina.”
“Just trying to work on your schedule.”
“Considerate, but unnecessary as dinner tonight is a one-off. I don’t know you.”
“That’s the only thing you’ve said so far that makes sense. But we can go back up your list and I can remind you I’m friends—serious, long-term—with Kev and Jenny. They’d warn you if I was a psychopath.”
She kept her eye on the view. “People don’t always know people close to them the way they think they do.”
There was a story, Xander thought. He could hear it murmuring under her words. Instead of pressing on that, he tried something else.
He leaned over and took her face in his hand. Her mouth with his. Strong and hot and edging onto the fierce.
He knew when a woman wanted—and she did. He knew it by the way her mouth responded, heard it in her throaty hum, felt it in the quick, sexy quiver.
Another woman? All this heat, the mesh of needs would lead them straight up and into that excellent new bed.
But she drew back. Still, she kept her eyes, that deep, fascinating green, on his.
“You make an excellent point,” she said. “And I can’t argue it, but . . .” She looked directly into his eyes. “Like I told the dog, that’s how it goes.”
“Tonight.”
For the moment he contented himself with the food, the view, the mysteries of the woman beside him. Somebody handed him a puzzle, he thought, he just had to solve it. He’d figure her out, sooner or later.