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“You have a dog?” He looks at me curiously as we walk up the steps. It dawns on me how bad things were the last time on these steps, and I hope he’s not thinking about it too. He holds the door open for me and together we walk in.
“Yep. Right after I got her—”
“Wait, you have a female dog named Tank?” A giggle escapes at the amused look on his face.
“Yep, I wanted the girliest name possible and picked Tinkerbell. Well, within a week it shortened to Tink, and then Cora was over one night and says, ‘Tink? Should be Tank because her gas tank never runs out.’ Tank just stuck.”
“Where was she the other night? I’ve been here twice and haven’t seen her once.” As he follows me up the stairs, my chest tightens a little. He’s not going to hurt me; it’s an irrational reaction, and I hate that I’m having it, but it’s not lost on me he’ll be the first guy to enter my bedroom in seven years.
“She sleeps in her crate when I’m not home—or travel bag, while we’re here—and for whatever reason, she doesn’t bark in it. And,” we reach my bedroom door, and I pause before opening it. Can he tell that I’m nervous? That he makes me nervous?
Taking a chance, I look up at him. His eyes roam over my face and then drop to my mouth. Oh my. Slowly, he reaches up and pulls my lip out from between my teeth—I didn’t even know I was biting it—and he takes a step back. The tightness in my chest evaporates and is replaced by the familiar electricity that runs between us.
“And?” His voice is hoarse, which lets me know he feels it too.
“She doesn’t like guys,” I whisper. “We kept her inside when you and Clay were here. Otherwise, she would have been a pain the whole time.”
His eyes light up and he laughs. “Just like her mom, huh?” He runs his hand over his head, pulling the beanie down and grins at me.
“What makes you think I don’t like guys?” I do like guys. I may keep my distance from them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like them.
“Darlin’, I’m about as tame as it gets and you’re even skittish around me.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back against the wall opposite me.
Tame—there’s a laughable word. Nothing about him is tame. Yes, so far he’s shown me nothing but kindness, but he screams sex appeal that would make even the strongest of girls weak.
“Whatever.” I open the door and there she is. Her little, sweet face, so happy to see me.
Ash peeks over my shoulder to get a good look at her. “How do you think she’ll do with Whiskey?” Just thinking of his giant dog makes me cringe.
“I guess we’ll find out. By the way, don’t tell her she’s a little dog; she thinks she’s a big one,” I whisper.
“Deal.” Right on cue, she growls at him.
“Easy there, killer.” He chuckles as he walks over to the fabric bag and picks it up.
“What type of dog is this?” Tank and Ash are having a stare-off.
“Italian Greyhound,” I say proudly.
“Cute little thing,” he says, winking at me as he passes and heads down the stairs.
Leaving Emma’s parents’ house, we turn back on the main road, and head further away from town. I know he’s staying only a few houses away from us, but I’m surprised at how much the road veers away from the lake, and how long it takes to get to his driveway.
Emma’s parents’ drive is nothing like this one. Both sides are lined with apple trees and beyond them, fences filled with tall grassy fields. The apple trees are overflowing with apples and my mouth waters at the thought of making cinnamon apple strudel cupcakes. Maybe tomorrow morning Tank and I can wander down here and pick a few; I don’t think he’ll mind.
As we approach the house and pull to a stop, Whiskey comes running out.
“You have a dog door?” I look up at the house and see it’s impressive. How did I not notice this before? Gray stone covers the front, while the rest looks like a huge log cabin. There’s a wraparound porch and the landscaping makes it feel welcome and inviting.
“Yep,” he says turning off the truck.
“Aren’t you worried about other animals trying to get in?” A multitude of animals cross my mind: squirrels, raccoons, fox, bobcats, even bears!
He chuckles. “No, I close it up at night, but if one did, it wouldn’t last very long.” He looks at Whiskey affectionately.
“How old is he?” The dog, which looks like a cross between a German Shepherd and a Husky, runs over to Ash’s side of the truck and barks. His front paws hit the door as he stands on his back legs looking in. Ash smiles at him and then looks back to me.
“We’re not sure. Clay and I found him last year, and he’s been with us ever since.”
