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And there she stood, like he’d conjured her up just by thinking about her for only a few minutes.
She wore a red T-shirt and faded denim shorts, and those long, long legs damn near killed him. In her hands she held some sort of container, and even with her sunglasses, he could see the awe in them as she looked up.
“You have turrets,” she said, and the awe spread.
“The house does.”
“Two turrets,” she said again, then Howl walked onto the porch. “And a dog!”
Howl muttered, grumbled, let out a high trio of whines as he wagged from head to toe.
“Turrets and a talking dog!”
Miles felt the dog dancing in place beside him. He started to tell the dog to sit, then Howl broke a primary rule.
He raced off the porch and straight at Morgan.
Rather than alarm, she showed only delight, shifting the container under one arm so she could crouch down and greet him.
He licked, he rubbed, he rolled over on his back for a belly rub, making a constant series of happy noises.
Not even for his father, Miles thought, did the dog make such an ass of himself. But then, Morgan laughed, rubbed, cooed, nuzzled.
“Oh, what a good boy. What a very good boy! Aren’t you handsome? What’s your name? What’s his name?”
“Howl. He—”
To illustrate why, Howl howled and made Morgan laugh.
“He’s not supposed to go off the porch without a leash.”
“Oh, but— Oh, the road. Good policy. Come on, Howl, we don’t want you to get in trouble. Sorry, my fault.”
She straightened on those damn flamingo legs, and the dog pranced—heneverpranced—beside her on the way to the porch.
“And sorry,” she continued. “I got distracted, because turrets. I was just going to leave these on the porch, then text you. I didn’t mean to interrupt your day off.”
“Leave what?”
“I baked you cookies.” She held the container out to him.
“You…” If he’d been thrown off before, now he was completely floored. “Baked me cookies.”
“To thank you for Friday night. I’ll admit it was my mother’s idea, and they’re good cookies mostly because she supervised every step. But the thank-you’s sincere.”
He took the container, opened it, then sampled a cookie while she turned the dog into a puddle by kissing his nose.
“They are good cookies.” When Howl spared him a glance, Miles shook his head. “Not yours.”
“No chocolate chips for you.” Morgan stroked Howl’s ears. “They’re not good for you. What is he?”
“A dog.”
“I meant what kind of dog.”
“Nobody knows. Best guess is a sheepdog got busy with a beagle.”
“Well, that’s a combo. I’m trying to be sorry I ended up interrupting your day off, but otherwise I wouldn’t have met Howl. And…”
