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BRINGING THE DOG INTOthe house is quite a production.
He’s a good-natured, agreeable animal, but he’s also incredibly excited about the attention and the new surroundings. He spins and pants and investigates every crack and corner with eager sniffs. At one point he springs off down the hall and barrels through the dining room until he reaches the kitchen.
Stella greets the newcomer with a repertoire of “Oh my!”s varying from shocked to bewildered to amused. Billy appears from the yard, wanting to know the cause of all the commotion. He volunteers to give the dog a bath, and I go with him to one of the guest showers to help.
It’s not an easy process. The dog clearly doesn’t think getting hosed with the shower spray is treatment that’s appropriate to his breed and dignity. He keeps trying to squirm his way out of the bath until both Billy and I are soaking wet.
When we finally rinse off the shampoo and make a gesture toward towel drying some of the moisture off, the dog has clearly had enough. He makes a frantic leap that moves him out of my and Billy’s reach and then makes a dash for the door of the bathroom, which was left open just a crack.
Now free, he starts zooming up and down the hallway in gleeful sprints, leaving a path of scattered water droplets and a couple of toppled chairs in his wake.
Billy and I are nearly doubled over with laughter as we chase him. Arthur was in his room, showering and changing after his muddy adventure, but he comes to the door to see what’s causing the uproar.
The dog seizes the opportunity to push past Arthur and run ecstatic circles around his bedroom. Then he jumps onto the bed and scratches up a nest in Arthur’s thick, expensive, pristinely white duvet and flops down on the fluffy pile of bedding.
I’m still trying not to laugh, but I’m also a little worried about Arthur’s reaction. He was already annoyed with being knocked into the mud. Now his lovely bed is all messed up by a wet dog.
He narrows his eyes in exaggerated disapproval. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, crossing my arms over my stomach as if I might hold the amusement inside. “We tried to hold on to him, but he got away.”
“I can see that. Is there a particular reason he chose my bed to ravage?”
“Well, probably because it was so nice and clean and comfy.”
“It’s not nice and clean anymore.”
“No.” I look at the floor because his aggrieved expression is making me giggle even more. “I guess not. Sorry about that.”
He lets out a long breath. “Are you sorry?”
I dart a quick look at him and suddenly realize he just got out of the shower. His hair is wet, combed out and pulled back smoothly at the nape of his neck. Without the softness of his rumpled hair, he looks sleeker, harder. The chiseled lines of his face are more pronounced—high cheekbones, broad forehead, striking jaw. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt—damp around the neckline—and a pair of darker gray sweatpants that are more worn than anything I’ve ever seen him in.
He’s incredibly hot—familiar but also disturbingly sexy. Even his feet are bare, and the sight of them on the polished hardwood floor does something weird and intense to my insides.
“Scarlett?” he asks in a different tone, ducking his head slightly to better see my expression.
I shake away the unexpected attraction and reply to his earlier question. “I am sorry. The dog has caused you a lot of trouble, and I feel responsible for the dog.”
His mouth twitches up. “Youareresponsible for the dog.”
“Am I going to have to find him another home?”
“Don’t you want to keep him?”
“Of course I want to keep him! But this is your house. And if you don’t want him here, I’d have to—”
He gives his head a little shake. “What the hell do you take me for? You think I’d throw out a helpless dog?”
“Well... I mean... I know you wouldn’t harm a dog, but this is just a stray. You might ask me to find him somewhere else to live. You’re not an animal person.”
“Why would you say that?” He sounds curious more than offended.
“I don’t know. You’ve never had any pets.”
