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His eyes narrow, but not angrily. It’s more of a contemplative look that swallows me up and drags me to the depths of his eyes. In the dark, they’re the color of a waning sky. Blue with a hint of gray.
“Are you hungry, Miss Garrison?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say quickly.
“We’re having roast,” he says. “You can wait in the four season porch while I change.”
I consider telling him that my name isMrs.Garrison, but I don’t have the courage to be confrontational. I still have no clue why I’m here, and that’s fraying at my nerves.
He ushers me across the living room and I’m wide-eyed. Taking in the huge, lofted ceilings, the fireplace so tall I could walk into it, and a row of cow skulls over the mantel. Everything is big, even the couches, but that doesn’t surprise me. He’s a big, broad man and he’s built the world to fit him.
He moves me through a rounded doorway and into a dining room. He described it as a four season porch, but that’s a bit of an understatement. Everything is dark, expensive wood and the windows that look out over the lake are thick glass and reach from the floor to the ceiling. An oval table takes up the center of the room.
He pulls out a chair. I sit, taking my purse off and putting it in his open hand. It looks tiny in his palm and I can’t help but stare as he sets it aside. What size are those fingers? A thirteen maybe? Bigger? It’s hard to say.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
He pours me a glass of wine and leaves, his footsteps rising as he heads upstairs.
Movement stirs in the corner of my eye. I glance over and Big Dog is peering into the dining room, head cocked. I lean down and hold my hand out. She doesn’t budge, so I click my fingers. The look she gives me is almost disdainful.
“Here, girl,” I say.
Big Dog backs up a step and sits. Small Dog is nowhere to be seen, but I think I can hear faint snores coming from the next room.
Maybe his dogs don’t like me after all. I flip my palms. They’re damp and I notice my heart is pounding. My dress is sweaty under my arms. I hope my deodorant holds up.
The truth is, it’s not just being here.
It’s what he said, how he looked at me that night seven months ago. Like he wanted to devour me whole.
Maybe it's because the first and only time we met, I told him something I’d never told anyone before—that I was afraid of Clint.
I’d mulled over my accidental admittance for weeks after that. Hoping it never came up again. Hoping he would fade away as quickly as he’d appeared in my life so I never had to address my confession.
So much for that.
Flustered, I click my fingers again. Big Dog yawns, but keeps her hunches firmly glued to the floor.
“Come here,” I say, holding my palm out.
“Dogs aren’t allowed in the dining room.”
I jump, whirling. He’s standing at the far end of the room. He must have come from the back entrance, as quietly as a lion stalking its prey.
“Really?” I say, gathering myself. “They never beg for scraps?”
He clears his throat. “My dogs know better.”
“That’s no fun,” I say.
He crosses the room and pulls out the chair beside mine. I hear it creak as he sits down. My eyes drift to the side and run over his chest and shoulders. God, he looks good. His biceps are the size of my head. His chest is wide enough I could comfortably use it as a pillow.
“It’s good manners.”
“So I’ll take it they don’t sleep in the bed with you?” I say, jerking myself back to reality.
“They’re working dogs.”
