The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (17 page)

“You're always telling tales on Effie,” Jake said. “She seems harmless enough to me.”

“That's because you charmed her. Believe me, she would not find this little fellow charming in the least. Some chew toys are bigger than he is.” Lacy shook her head. “I simply can't take him.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes sad and pleading. The stupid little dog gave him the same look. This powder puff wasn't the sort of pet most guys chose. A German shepherd, a Doberman, a barrel-chested bulldog—those were breeds a man could have at his side with pride.

Still, those two sets of pleading eyes . . .

“Let's get him cleaned up. Then we'll see.” Shifting the dog in his arms, he started back toward the Green Apple with Lacy in tow. “You better come, too. I have a feeling this is going to be a job for two.”

 

—Jake Tyler, who's kicking himself for aiding and abetting an old drunk's shoplifting spree at Walmart.

 

 

 

L
acy followed Jake into the alley behind the buildings on the Green Apple side of the Square.

“We can't carry a dirty dog through the grill,” Jake said as he led her to the back stoop, through the door, and up the stairs to his living quarters. “Don't want the health department after me.”

There was little danger of that, even if he'd trooped a whole pack of dirty dogs through his restaurant. The Coldwater Cove health department consisted of the same overworked clerk who also served the paper-pushing needs of the county assessor and the treasurer. No one at the courthouse had time to make health inspections unless someone lodged a complaint.

Often and loudly.

Lacy believed she could tell a lot about a person by the way they organized their personal space. Or didn't. Of course, messy and disorganized didn't always mean something negative. Some of the most creative people she knew couldn't pick up a sock if their life depended on it. So as she climbed the stairs, she was both anxious and curious about seeing Jake's place.

Unlike her apartment, which was chopped up into small Victorian-style rooms, Jake's was a loft with a high vaulted ceiling that stretched from the back staircase to the long bank of windows above the Green Apple Grill's striped awning in front. An efficient kitchen was positioned in one rear corner with an island big enough to seat four as it separated the kitchen from the rest of the space. No stainless-steel appliances, no granite. The kitchen was functional and spotless, but not trendy.

Jake's neatly made bed was in the opposite corner positioned under a skylight. There was a partial wall behind the headboard that probably hid a walk-in closet, which was accessed from one side. The only interior door in the place was located opposite the entrance.

Probably the bathroom.
Based on her estimate of the square footage behind that door, it was smaller than her bathroom. But then, guys didn't need much vanity space and tended not to go into raptures over claw-foot tubs.

In front of a leather sectional, a large-screen TV was the focal point of a wall filled with shelving. Along with books and a small set of hand weights, there were a number of trophies from Jacob's days as an athlete. Pictures of his parents and siblings and their families, of him and his marine buddies in desert gear, were propped on the shelves. In a corner niche, there was a small safe.

“You don't trust banks?” she asked, eyeing the safe.

“With my money, yes. With my Beretta, no.”

Lacy's Bostonian friend Shannon had a horror of handguns, but Lacy wasn't shocked to learn that Jake had one. Not only was he a marine, he was from Coldwater Cove. And in this town, gun control meant when you take aim at something, you hit it.

“Now, where do you want to do this?” Jake asked, holding the wiggly dog away from his body.

She noticed he didn't set the dirty little thing down on his gleaming hardwood. His home was masculine, but not a man-cave. Jake was military clean and orderly. That squared with what she expected of him. The flashback she'd glimpsed was an aberration. This was the real Jake—solid, steady, and, she was beginning to hope, completely trustworthy.

Of course, after her experience with Bradford Endicott, she was skittish about trusting her “man judgment.”

“I guess we'll have to use your tub and then give it a good scrub afterward,” Lacy said.

“Can't. I don't have a tub. Just a shower.”

“I can't say I'm surprised.” She eyed the deep farmhouse sink in his kitchen. “That'll have to do, then, but let's see if we can cut away those burrs first.”

Jake set the little dog down on the concrete counter of the island, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a pair of scissors. He handed them to her. “You cut. I'll hold.”

After a couple of minutes, Lacy realized he'd given himself the harder job. The little dog was nervous about Lacy's amateur attempts to groom him and tried to wriggle away from the sharp blades, but Jake held him fast.

“Easy, buddy,” he said. “Lacy won't hurt you.”

“I'm sure trying not to. Poor little guy. He must have been on his own for a long time to get this messed up.” Some of the cockleburs were embedded so deeply, they were cutting into his skin. The dog whined softly. Taking care not to nick him, she snipped away the prickly weeds. Then she clipped off the excess hair hanging down in the dog's eyes and trimmed his scruffy beard.

“Even after we're done here, he's going to need professional help.”

“Hear that, dog?” Jake said. “Lacy thinks someone besides me needs professional help.”

Obviously, he was chafing under her insistence that he see someone about his flashbacks. “I only meant you should take him to the Pampered Pup to get a good trim.”

“You're pretty handy with a pair of scissors,” Jake said as the dog began to settle. “Sometimes, a gentle hand is better than a pro who's just looking for a paycheck.”

“I'm sure they're gentle at the Pampered Pup. My folks take Fergus there all the time, and that's a pretty strong endorsement. They consider him their ‘fur baby,' you know. He's the little brother I never had,” Lacy said, tossing him a sideways glance. “Since you're not big on professional help, does this mean you haven't talked to anyone yet?”

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. “I've had a conversation.”

“With a doctor?”

He shook his head and avoided her gaze. “Another vet.”

Even though Lacy had suggested that as one of his options for help in dealing with his flashbacks, she wasn't sure it was the best course. If the other vet had issues of his own, it might only add to Jake's burden. But he was trying. That was something.

“That's good, Jake. I'm glad you're getting some help. But I hope you're doing it for you, not for me.”

He made a
hmph-
ing noise. Of course he was doing it for her, the sound said. “So does that mean we're still on for Thursday?”

“Sure. Just don't ask my dad for any of his homemade furniture stripper.” When he gave her a quizzical look, she waved off his unspoken question. “You don't want to know. It's the sad tale of an old squirrel-fighter who's desperate enough to try anything. I'd just as soon not spread the story around. Folks might wonder if my dad needs a little professional help of his own.”

Jake shifted the dog into his left arm so Lacy could reach the animal's other side. “May as well give him a complete haircut before the shampoo,” he said. “Less to wash.”

“I think he'll be cute once he's cleaned up.”

“Yeah, that's what every guy looks for in a dog. Cute.”

“Come on, Jake. You don't need a tough dog,” she said. “You're tough enough already.”

Jacob turned on his megawatt smile. She ought to be used to it by now, but his dimple was still devastating. Her knees really did wobble a little.

“I don't know,” he said. “I'm beginning to think I'm becoming a big pushover.”

“Why do you say that?” Satisfied with her work on the dog's coat, Lacy laid aside the scissors and filled the sink with warm water.

“Yesterday, Lester Scott was too grimy and obviously homeless to pass unnoticed in Walmart. Today, I let him use my shower and gave him those old clothes that belonged to my dad.” Jake's lips pressed together in a hard line. “I doubt he'd have tried to shoplift if I hadn't done that.”

“You were only trying to help,” Lacy said. “You can't blame yourself for what someone else does.”

“Well, hello, Kettle. This is Pot.”

“What?”

“Isn't that just what you've been doing?” Jake pointed out. “Blaming yourself for something your business partner did in Boston?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Yeah, but I'm not the only one. The DA was ready to blame me, too.”

It was a good thing no one in Coldwater Cove knew how close she'd come to being charged with embezzlement and outright theft. Only her willingness to make full restitution had convinced the DA that she wasn't in on Bradford's scheme. Even after she'd depleted all her resources, it wasn't until she took out the loan from the O'Learys that she was allowed to wiggle off the hook.

“Got any baby shampoo?” she asked, both because she needed it, and because she needed to change the subject.

“Not having a baby around, um, no. Why? Do you?”

“Actually, yes. I use it to remove eye makeup.” It occurred to her that she'd been going much easier on cosmetics lately. In Boston, she never left the condo without a full face on—foundation, concealer, mascara, eye liner, shadow, the works. Now most days she made do with a little blush and a dash of lipstick.

“Well, I haven't used eye makeup since the weird Goth skit that goofy drama coach made the football team do for a pep rally once.” He batted his dark lashes at her. “Little buddy will just have to settle for the shampoo I have on hand. Back in a minute.”

He handed the dog to Lacy and went in search of the shampoo.

“Buddy,” she repeated. “He's called you that a couple of times. That's a good name for you, my fine furry friend. Don't you think, Jake?”

“Not often enough evidently, since you roped me into washing a dog in my sink,” came the reply from the bathroom.

“No, I meant what about Buddy for a name for him?” Lacy called back to him.

“I was thinking Speedbump.”

“Jake, that's terrible.”

“It's either that or Roadkill.”

“No, not Roadkill.”

“Why? It's what he'd have become if we'd left him in the street.”

“That's no reason to give him such a mean name.”

“It's not mean. It's unusual, like he is. As a mutt, he's unique, one of a kind. Plenty of dogs are named Buddy. I've never met one called Speedbump.”

“Well, I guess Speedbump is better than Roadkill. Speedbump it is.” Lacy gently placed the dog into the sink of warm water.

The newly christened critter didn't think much of the arrangement. He startled and quivered with nervousness. Whenever she dipped a handful of water on him, he gave a full-body shake, flinging droplets all over. By the time Jake returned with the shampoo and an old towel, the front of Lacy's navy T-shirt was drenched.

“Let me help,” Jake said. “Maybe he'll stop shaking.”

He poured a quarter-sized amount of shampoo into his palm. Then he stood behind Lacy, put his arms around her, and reached into the sink to scrub the dog.

Whether it was the addition of another pair of hands or the fresh scent of shampoo, Speedbump finally stood still and let them wash him.

Truthfully, Lacy sort of lost track of the dog altogether. She was too distracted by the heat coming off the chest of the man behind her. There was something undeniably pleasurable about having Jake so close. The strength of his arms around her, the way their hands slipped and slid against each other in the bubbles, the—

Lacy started to giggle.

“What's so funny?” Jake wanted to know.

“Doesn't this remind you of something?” She turned so she was caught between his body and the sink. “The pottery wheel bit from
Ghost
?”

The scene where the doomed lovers worked a disastrous pot on a wheel together, slathered in liquefied clay, had been lampooned plenty of times in later comedies, but the first time Lacy had seen it, she thought it was one of the most sensual love scenes ever. Jake must have thought so, too, because his gaze met hers with undeniable heat.

And she wanted him to with an urgency that surprised her. She slid her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe as he bent to meet her mouth.

Jake's kiss was a slow quest. His lips were strong and firm, but he wasn't pushing her. This kiss wasn't the torrid taking she'd read about in romance novels. She had nothing to compare it to since she and Jake had never kissed during the brief time when they were an item in fifth grade. But this certainly wasn't the practiced kiss she expected from him, given his reputation with women.

Instead of slick seduction, he seemed to be sending her a message. A tender one.

She tried to decipher it.

You are precious to me,
his kiss seemed to say.
I want to know you, the real Lacy, deep down.

At least, she hoped that was the message. That's what she wanted it to be. Needed it to be. The thought made a warm shiver reverberate through her. To be known and yet accepted. Wasn't that the heart cry of every soul on earth?

His kiss made her feel special, as if there was no one else in the world he'd rather be with at this moment.

Then she remembered that was Jake Tyler's gift. He made every girl he'd ever been with feel special. And no matter how hot he was, or how good his kiss felt, the last thing she needed was to be nothing more than a convenient hookup for him.

In fact, she wasn't ready to be
anyone
's hookup. More than just a kiss would complicate things all to heck, and her life was complicated enough.

Jake seemed to sense it. His kiss turned questioning. Vulnerable, almost.