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“You can’t just rename my dog!”
“Sure I can. She likes Killer better, anyway. Don’t you, Killer?” he asks, dropping down to one knee and giving her a pet behind the ears. Snuggles’ eyes roll around in her head, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree with just about any name he gave her, as long as he continued to rub her down like that.
“You’re impossible,” I mumble.
“Give Mama a kiss, Killer. Tell her you’ll see her later, after you spend the day with me and Grandpa Bud.”
My heart slams against my chest, beating so loudly, I’m sure everyone within a one-block radius can hear. Mama? Sure, I’ve called myself that. The vet has referred to me as her Mama, but Grandpa Bud? What does that make Latham? Just the very idea of sharing my dog with him, of being tied to him in a way that leaves us both…parents, has my mind all over the place and my breathing erratic.
“Breathe, Sweetheart,” he says, standing before me. I didn’t even see him stand up. Strong arms wrap around my neck as he pulls me into his chest. He smells like woodsy soap and coffee, and I find myself sniffing his shirt a little longer than I should. “We’ll see you in a bit.”
Latham plants a quick, hard kiss on my lips, leaving me full of anticipation and yearning, and heads out the door, my dog happily trotting behind. I’m left wondering what in the hell just happened?
Without me even realizing, Latham Douglas, jerk extraordinaire, has wormed his way into my heart. He’s stolen my sanity and my dog, and effortlessly, positioned himself right smack dab in the middle of my life. Do I need him? Probably not. I don’t need any man. Do I want him?
That’s a big hell to the yes.
As I think about the building sitting vacant between his store and my own, I know that right there is the problem.
I shouldn’t want him.
But I do.
God help me, I really do.
* * *
After Free arrives, I inform her I’m running errands and slip out the back door. My car is still parked beside Latham’s truck, a sight that actually makes my heart beat a little faster. There’s something so…comforting about having his vehicle next to mine.
Ignoring the longing that tries to settle in my chest, I hop in my car, pleasantly surprised to see much of the glitter particles cleaned up, and head toward the grocery store. It’s busier than anticipated for a Friday afternoon, and I get stopped several times with greetings of hello and to talk of the warm summer weather. When I finally have a fresh bouquet of yellow and white blooms and a bottle of red wine (middle of the road in price – I just couldn’t see myself buying the four dollar bottle), I head to the counter to pay for my purchases. As the cashier is swiping the wine, I spy a few bags of freshly made caramels. I decide to throw in a few of the sweet treats, hand over the cash, and return to my car.
It only takes me a few minutes to get to Mrs. Morton’s place. I pull up in front and park on the street, letting the sun warm my skin as I slide out. My hand is eager as I knock on the door, the sounds of a cheesy daytime soap opera blaring through the closed door.
When the door opens, Mrs. Morton looks just as annoyed this time around as she did last week. “Good afternoon,” I coo, cheerfully.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Go away. You’re interrupting my show,” she says, starting to shut the door in my face.
“It’s Harper Grayson, Mrs. Morton. I stopped by last week. Do you remember me?” I ask, handing her the flowers, wine, and caramels.
The old woman looks me over carefully with a disapproving eye, leaving me feeling a little out of sorts once more. “Oh, yes, Hailey, I remember.”
“Harper, actually,” I reply, clearing my throat. “It was such a beautiful day and I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop by for a quick visit.”
“In the middle of my show?”
“Oh, well, I do apologize. I wasn’t aware your show was on at this time. I just wanted to drop off these gorgeous flowers. I thought they’d look amazing in your picture window,” I say, just as I look over and see…flowers.
“Well, a young man stopped by earlier and brought me some. Handpicked them, too,” she says, looking down at my store-bought flowers as if there was something wrong with them.
“Oh. Well, that’s nice of him. Who is he?” I ask, hoping she’ll spill the name and I’d finally have the confirmation I’ve been seeking.
“Logan. Logan somebody. He’s stopped by a few times to say hello. Brought his dog with him today.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “His dog?”
“Yes, ugly little thing. I don’t even remember the name. They took my trash out to the curb so I wouldn’t miss the garbage man again. Always so helpful, that young man.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, as rage starts to stab at my gut like tiny little nails. “What was the dog’s name?”
