Two Family Home (9 page)

L
indsey heard Walker's door slam. She leaned against her own recently slammed door and hung her head. It was just a little patch of plants. It wasn't even hers, not yet, anyway. She'd spent a few weeks weeding it. It was her own fault for getting so excited about it. Who got so excited about home-grown produce, anyway?

It was the move, that's all. The move and the stress of all the change and the hangover and the hot kiss. That was a lot for a girl to handle.

But what hurt the most was Walker's cruelty. That he could be so spiteful, to destroy something she cared about just because he was angry. And before she even had a chance to find out that he was angry! That man needed some communication lessons.

He said he hadn't done it. She didn't believe him, but he really looked like he hadn't noticed the destruction. Her Detective kicked in, and she started to see clues. The garden was pretty thoroughly torn up, but he didn't seem to have any dirt on him. Oh, he was dirty, and he smelled like sweat and metal—she had gotten close enough to find that out. But surely he would've had some dirt on his clothes if he'd spent half the night throwing plants around?

She definitely would have noticed the dirt. She noticed all of his smells. The tang of sweat and metal. She also noticed the feel of his hair, like silk around her fingers. And his shoulders, and the vise-like grip of his arms around her ribs. But a gentle vise. A nice vise.

She shivered. That was some kiss. It almost made her forget that she hated him right now.

But that kiss, and that art. Any man who could create like that and kiss like that was a man with some serious depth. The more he kept that depth from her, hidden behind half-frowns and exasperated silence, the more she wanted to break down those walls.

So if he hadn't destroyed the garden, who had?

If she couldn't figure out the mystery of Walker's hidden depths, she could at least figure out who was crazy enough to pull their yard apart in the middle of the night.

She opened the door and poked her head out, noting that Walker's door was still slammed shut. She felt like an idiot, especially as she crept, Pink Panther-style, toward the garden, but she couldn't help it. Something was up, and she needed to know what it was.

She stood up and surveyed the damage. Yup, pretty damaged. But there was a tomato plant that was encased in one of those circle wire-y cage things that seemed to have survived. And as she stepped into the garden, she saw that at least one of the zucchini plants was still intact. At least she thought it was a zucchini plant. She should have brought her book out with her.

Because that would not have been dorky at all. First sleuthing, then with a reference book.

Made it hard to believe Walker had wanted to kiss her at all.

She shook that thought off. He hadn't wanted to kiss her. He had just done it to distract her from his top-secret work-in-progress.

Even though, toward the end there, he wasn't exactly acting like a man who was just trying for a distraction. One does not simply squeeze a girl's butt like that if one only wants a distraction.

But his distraction was distracting her from her investigation. Clues. She needed clues. Maybe he had stuff in the garage that she could use to make a mold of any footprints she found. Then she could compare it to the shoes people in the neighborhood owned, and then . . .

She was sidetracked by a rustle at the side of the garage, the one closest to where she stood in the garden.
Aha,
she thought.
The culprit is back for more.
“Come on out, buddy,” she said, and picked up the nearest weapon. Which, unfortunately, was her dead eggplant.

Well, at least she would die defending her territory. She watched the unmown grass wave as whatever was hiding moved closer to her. She took a step forward and the waving stopped, but she only had to wait a second for it to start up again. Then she heard a snap and a squeak and the grass went crazy as the beast sprang from its hiding place and charged straight toward Lindsey.

Before she had a chance to throw down her useless weapon and run, she was knocked into the garden, taking the last tomato plant with her. She grabbed for her attacker, pulling it off of her and—

It was a puppy. A big, brown, wet-nosed puppy, whining and burrowing into her armpit. He seemed upset, and Lindsey saw why—his tail was clamped in a mousetrap, one of those old-fashioned metal-and-wood ones.

“Okay, okay,” she said in as soothing a voice as she could muster, what with her heart beating out of her chest. “Hold on, pup. I've got it.” She grabbed the wooden bottom of the trap with one hand and his tail with the other, and the dog whimpered and jerked and almost blew out Lindsey's ear drum with a high-pitched yelp, but the mousetrap came off. Lindsey tossed the thing aside and dropped her head into the dirt. The puppy sat on her chest and licked her nose.

“Uh, you're welcome,” she said, then scratched behind his ears.

 

“What's that?” Walker asked when he came back to find Lindsey not quite where he left her.

Lindsey looked up from whatever she was doing on the ground in what was left of her garden and held her arms out. Her arms, which were full of dog.

“It's a dog.”

He shook his head. “I know that. I can see that. But . . . why?”

“Well,” she said, “when a mommy dog and a daddy dog love each other very much . . .”

He noticed the mischievous glint in her eye. He was still annoyed at her.

“What is it doing here?”

“I think he's hungry.” Walker watched blankly as the dog licked Lindsey's face. “I think he's the garden destroyer.”

“That little dog did all this?” Walker didn't know much about dogs. He never had one. This dog looked way too small to be able to tear up every square inch of garden.

Although the dog's feet were pretty big. If his feet were any indication of his appetite, then . . . maybe.

The dog wiggled out of Lindsey's arms and made his somersaulting-over-his-ears way to Walker. “This dog must be part Tasmanian devil.” He watched as the dog bounced up and down on Walker's knee.

“He had all night.” Lindsey shrugged, then knelt down to pick up the dog. “Didn't you, my little love machine angel baby face.” She shrieked and laughed as he licked her.

“Wait a second.” Walker crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to be charmed by either Pollyanna or her Destroying Angel. “When you thought I tore up the garden, you were pissed.”

“Yeah,” she said, clearly only half-listening to him as the dog tried to climb up her chest and nip at her ponytail.

“So why is the dog off the hook?”

She looked at him sharply. “The dog can't help it! He doesn't know any better! Besides, he was probably starving!”

“So if I was starving and tore up your garden, you would be fine with it?”

She threw him a challenging glare. “If you were as cute as the dog is.”

“Hey, I'm—” Walker stopped himself. He was
not
cute.

He threw his arms up. “Fine. The dog wins. Whose dog is it, anyway?”

“I don't know. He doesn't have a collar.” Lindsey scratched behind the dog's ears. He flopped onto his belly at her feet. Lucky dog. “But he did have this attached to his tail.”

She held up one of those ancient cartoon-style mousetraps Myron had insisted on putting around the garage. Those had been out there for years. Walker thought he'd picked them all up. He was surprised he hadn't stepped on it the last time he mowed the lawn.

Good thing he didn't mow the lawn very often.

“How could you?” Lindsey spat at him, and pulled the dog closer to her chest.

“I didn't mean to trap the dog! Although you should be thanking me. Without that trap, you never would have caught him.”

“Hmph.” She held up the dog's face and started speaking babytalk gibberish to him.

Walker rubbed his jaw. “So, how are you going to find his owner?”

Lindsey huffed out a breath. “I guess we have to find your home, don't we, boy? I'll make some posters. Here,” she said, handing the dog to Walker. “Hold him while I get my phone.”

Before Walker could say anything, he had his hands full of dog, and Lindsey was sprinting into the house. The dog was still dangling from Walker's hands when she came out, phone in hand.

“Hold him up so I can get his face. Oh my gosh, support his legs,” Lindsey scolded him. “He's not going to bite.”

“He could bite,” muttered Walker.

“Over here! Look over here, boy! That's a good boy!” Lindsey made a series of clicking and whistling noises that the dog ignored. Instead, he just licked Walker's hands.

“You know . . .” he said, and pulled the dog tight to him with one hand while he wiped the other on his jeans.

“Got it! Very cute. Oh my gosh, Walker, you're smiling in this one! It's a miracle!”

What was that supposed to mean? “Hey, why am I in the picture?”

She shrugged. “I'll crop you out. Look at this face.” She tapped her phone to zoom in on the dog's face, his big brown eyes glistening pathetically and adorably in the sun. Lindsey smelled like sweat and peppermint. The dog licked her cheek.

Lucky dog.

“We'll find your home, don't you worry,” she said, snuffling her nose into the dog's neck. Walker just stood there, trying hard not to inhale the scent of her hair or generally drool over the good feeling he got when she was near. He also tried not to be jealous of the dog. Because it was a dog.

This dog,
he thought as it wormed its way out from under Lindsey's affection to rest its chin on Walker's shoulder,
this dog is a problem.

“Oh my god, do not move,” she said and circled around them, phone out. “Holy crap. I can't . . . Okay, my ovaries just exploded.”

Walker turned at that, despite her instruction. She stuck the phone in his face again. “Please,” she said, and he just grunted because, please what? The dog was flopped in sleep on his shoulder. It was pretty cute. If Walker had ovaries, he imagined they'd be exploding right now, too.

Until he felt the picturesque, adorable, ovary-exploding drool soak through the shoulder of his shirt.

Why was he letting this dog drool on his shirt again?

Lindsey stood in front of him, swiping at her phone as her face morphed into various stages of maniacal joy.

That's why. He was covered in dog drool because watching this woman's gloriously joyful face made it worthwhile.

He'd been covered in worse.

He had it bad for Lindsey. He should go inside and put his house on the market and not come out until he had a moving truck lined up. He did not like the idea of pining over his next-door neighbor.

He never should have kissed her.

Myron was going to have a field day with this.

With a sigh, Lindsey looked up from her phone. The look she gave him was slightly less joyous, but it was a hell of a lot better than the one she'd given him when she thought he'd torn up her garden.

“I guess you're off the hook,” she said.

He was standing in the middle of a destroyed vegetable garden, his work left unfinished and exposed in the garage, a drooling puppy on his shoulder that he didn't want to put down because it made Lindsey happy and, if it was internal monologue confession time, he kind of liked the warm, furry weight.

All in all, not the worst situation he'd ever been in. But Walker felt decidedly on the hook.

“For the garden,” Lindsey clarified. “Clearly it wasn't you.”

It rankled that she ever thought it might be. But then the puppy shifted and Lindsey came over to scratch behind its ears and Walker smelled her again and he was done rankling for the moment.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster in the face of her sincerity and her aroma.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm still not sleeping with you, you know.”

The puppy squirmed out of his arms and reached an adorable tongue over to lick Lindsey's hands. She giggled and baby-talked and reached over to pull the dog off Walker.

He was finally rid of the burden of the garden-destroying beast, but that wasn't what made him smile. “You were thinking of sleeping with me?”

She tossed him another narrowed-eye glare, the ferocity of which was slightly marred by the rosy blush that crept into her cheeks.

He was still probably going to have to move. But she was thinking of sleeping with him.

He was pathetic.

And he wasn't going to sleep with her.

But he was smiling.

“I
'm still not sleeping with you.”

Lindsey cringed at the memory, even weeks later. But at least it had led to a truce. She had a truce, and she had a dog. It was official. The morning of the Garden Incident she'd called Billie, who got her an appointment with the vet (who was also Katie's brother and Grace's fiancé's cousin—small towns). Keith confirmed that the dog was about six months old, a little undernourished but healthy enough to neuter, and not microchipped. So Lindsey had him snipped and vaccinated, and made posters with Walker's face cropped out. She hung them everywhere—in Hollow Bend, where Keith's practice was, around Willow Springs, on the Pembroke campus. As one week turned into two, she gave up on holding back hope that the dog would go unclaimed, and started thinking about a name.

She wasn't going to sleep with Walker, but at least she had a dog.

The dog was surprisingly good when she was out of the house. It was only when she was home that he would find shoelaces and unroll the toilet paper and just generally wreak the most adorable havoc ever. But when she left him alone, he was fine. She created a little nest for him in the laundry room, and closed the door while at work to keep him contained. Every day, so far, she came home to an undestroyed laundry room and a dog that would wiggle himself off-balance, he was so happy to see her.

And one of her secret childhood dreams came true—falling asleep to the warm weight of a sleeping ball of fur nestled against her.

So much better than sleeping with Walker.

 

Walker stopped, poised over his kitchen sink, and listened to the front door close. He quit loading the dishwasher and headed for the laundry room. He knew he had exactly forty-five seconds before the howling and crying.

Lindsey didn't use the chain on her side of the laundry room door. Walker discovered this the first time he went into her house uninvited, rushing past that big blue couch to get to her laundry room. That first day, the dog barked happily at him, which was a big improvement over the heartbreaking, ear-splitting whining.

So now, Walker just held open the door, and the little booger came rushing into his apartment, where he began a long day of following Walker around.

 

Walker wasn't home when Lindsey got back from work. Or at least his truck wasn't parked in the driveway, which, so far, had meant that he wasn't home. Not that she was stalking him.

But her dog was there. Her cute, floppy, unnamed dog was there, whining until she opened the laundry room door, where he launched himself into her arms, then out the back door.

She grabbed a quick snack, then took the dog for a long walk. When they got back about an hour later, he was pooped, which had been the idea.

“Now you listen to me,” she said, getting down to puppy level. “I'm going out to dinner with Grace. But I promise I'll be back soon and I will give you t-r-e-a-t-s. Okay? Okay? Is that okay? Are you my lovey face? Is that okay, my lovey face?”

It was okay, although Lindsey had to close her eyes against the sad puppy dog face as she shut the laundry room door.

 

Why did she close the door? I don't like when she closes the door. Is she ever even coming back? I love her. I don't want her to leave me. I already smelled everything in this room. That one spot smells good. I'll smell it again and maybe take a drink. When is she coming back? This floor is cold except for this soft spot but should I sit on it or chew on it? Hey, wait a second. I hear something. What is that sound? Is she coming back? No it's coming from over here. I have to get to it because what if she never comes back or maybe she's over there and she forgot about me? I better get over there because what if she forgets to give me dinner? I just know she's right over there. Hold on, I'm coming. Hold on, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!

Lindsey did her best not to break land speed records on her way home. She was now officially the worst dinner date in town, although Grace had been just as distracted as Lindsey was. Except Grace was worried about professional travel fellowships and research papers. Lindsey was worried that her dog would miss her.

Grace didn't get it. Grace had a cat. Cats don't miss you, she told Lindsey. They just tell you that you never should have left in the first place.

But it was still a nice dinner, and the idea of a weekend movie was floated around. Friends! Lindsey had friends now.

Friends and a dog who loved her. A dog who would wag his tail and jump up to lick her face and . . .

“Oh, shit.”

 

Walker pulled into the driveway but sat in his truck for a minute. The days were getting longer. It was summer. He had gone to the woods to visit his tree, then lost track of time wandering. The sun had set behind him as he drove out of the forest, and he was starving. But he was also itching to work. He'd just decided to work first, eat later, when he saw the lights in his bedroom go on.

He wasn't home. Why were the lights on?

He let himself in quietly, through the front door. He grabbed the nearest weapon, which was a magazine. No problem, as long as the intruder was a fly. He could hear Lindsey next door, talking to the dog, and he moved a little faster. If there was someone in his apartment, she could be in danger too.

When he got to his bedroom, though, there was nobody there.

Not anymore, anyway.

He hadn't made his bed that morning, but he definitely hadn't left his sheets in a tangle on the floor. And he absolutely hadn't chewed up his pillows so there was stuffing everywhere.

There didn't seem to be a thing in his room that was not chewed on. Tennis shoes, books, the legs of the old leather armchair, the dirty clothes he had thrown over the old leather armchair.

Dammit, she'd promised she would lock that thing up. How had the dog gotten in here, anyway?

He heard a sharp bark from his kitchen, and Lindsey's raised voice. How did
she
get in here?

As soon as he rounded the corner from the stairs, it was clear. Clear as the hole in the laundry room door, the one that led straight through to Lindsey's apartment.

“Hi,” she said sheepishly, leaning down to peek through what was left of the door. The dog squirmed in her arms and escaped, launching himself at Walker.

“I'm so sorry.” She climbed through the door—what was left of the door, and bent down to try to corral the dog, who was trying to climb Walker.

“What the—” He couldn't even find the words to express his . . . his what? His anger? His shock? How did a dog that little eat that much door?

She stood up, leaving the dog to chew on Walker's shoelaces.

“He's so good when I leave him for work, so I thought he'd be fine if I went out to dinner . . .” Her voice trailed off at the end as she pointed toward the chewed-up door. “At least he didn't damage any electric stuff?”

Walker had a sudden image of the dog chewing on a wire, then flying across the room.

He scooped the dog up in his arms. Just to get him to stop chewing on his shoelaces.

“I'm really, really sorry. I'll pay for the door. I'll get a new door. You don't even have to do anything. I'll bring the dog to work—”

He took a step back as she reached for the dog. “If he chews through a door”—Walker still couldn't believe that this little beast had chewed through a
door
—“what kind of damage do you think he'll do in a nursing home?”

“I know, but—”

“And don't you think you should take him to the vet? Since he just ate a door?”

“Yes! Of course! I left a message!” She held up her phone, then reached for the dog again.

“You locked him up all day, then left him again? So you could go out to dinner?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I was barely gone for an hour.”

“I just—” Walker stopped himself before he could say, “I just don't think you're ready for a dog.” That's what Red used to say, no matter how much Walker kept up with his chores or did as he was told. He could have been ready for a dog. He would have been ready for a dog, if they didn't move so damn much.

Besides, he knew Lindsey took care of the little booger. He knew she devoted all the time she wasn't at work to making sure he ate and got exercise, and she'd spent almost three hours outside with him last weekend and he was finally, usually, sitting on command. It definitely wasn't helping Booger's separation anxiety that Walker went and fetched him every day.

“I can take him,” he said, his brain working fast.

“What?”

“When you go out. He can hang out with me.”

“All day? While I'm at work?”

Walker shrugged. What a great idea he had just completely and spontaneously come up with.

“But what if you have to . . . I don't know, go sculpt somewhere?”

“You mean besides my studio?”

She shrugged. “I can't ask you to do that.”

“It's better than . . .” He waved a hand at the door.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Okay, that will be nice.” She reached over and petted the dog's head. “He seems okay.” She lifted his chin and looked into his eyes, then started feeling down the dog's body. The dog wiggled, but Walker thought it was more in delight than in pain.

Lucky dog.

She was close again, so close that her hair tickled his chin. It smelled like herbs and lemons. Just as he was about to take a deep, embarrassing breath, she looked up. They stood there, staring at each other, a squirming Booger between them. She leaned up. He leaned down.

The phone rang in her hand.

“That's probably the vet,” she said, and disappeared through the hole in the door.

 

“Good news,” Lindsey said as she climbed back through the door. “You don't have to—”

But the good news was lost in a blast of surprise and glee at the sight that greeted her: Walker, on his knees, his fine butt in the air, playing tug of war with the dog and a T-shirt. In his mouth.

He was growling.

At the dog.

The moment was so perfect and so strange, so much better than any cute scenario she ever could have imagined, that she almost cried. Instead, she just stood still, mouth open around the good news, and soaked the silliness in before Walker noticed her.

It didn't take long.

He opened his mouth to let go of the shirt, and the dog went tumbling backward, tangled up in victory.

“It's clean,” he said, and wiped his mouth.

She shrugged, like it was no big deal, like she wouldn't be re-living that moment randomly throughout the next week and laughing. “I can't believe you let the dog win.”

The dog had untangled himself from the shirt and was climbing up Walker's lap—lucky dog—shaking the T-shirt at him, taunting him with another round.

Walker grabbed one end of the shirt, but didn't pull. “What did Keith say?”

“Just to keep an eye on him, make sure he's not acting like he's in pain.”

The dog was now flopped on his back on the floor, belly exposed to Walker's vigorous rubbing.

Lucky dog.

“I think he's fine for now,” she said, and kneeled on the floor next to Walker. She took one end of the shirt and waved it over the dog's head. He jumped up, pounced, and took off for a lap around the room. “Sorry. I hope you didn't want that shirt.”

But Walker wasn't looking at the shirt. He was looking at her, and before she knew it they were locked in another moment just like the one before Keith called. She just had to tilt her head up, lean into him a little, and they could be kissing.

And this would be a real kiss, not a stupid spontaneous reaction to a bad situation. She leaned in, and he leaned in, bracing his hand on the floor behind her. She almost lost her balance, so she grabbed his shoulder, then his other hand was around her waist, holding her up. They never broke eye contact, not until she closed her eyes and finally pressed her mouth to his. His arms went around her and squeezed and her spine straightened and she aligned herself more fully with him, chest to chest, and she gasped as she felt his fingers dig into her rear and his tongue slide into her mouth. Then he stood up, taking her with him, and then his hands went lower, cupping her butt, then the backs of her thighs and she trusted his strength and let him lift her legs so they wrapped around his hips. He backed her up until she hit something, an end table maybe, because then she was perched on it and his hands were roaming everywhere. He was rough. No, not rough, he was thorough. No part of her back or her thighs or her neck went untouched. Then he moved to her front and she let out a feral groan as he cupped her breasts.