Charming as Puck(14)

“Nah, I’m sick of your ugly mug,” I tell Lavoie, who almost certainly knows what my other option is.

Heading over to my parents’ place.

It’s just for a few hours, I tell myself. I could get a hotel room, but I live in hotels enough during the season.

And there’s not a hotel breakfast in the world that can touch my mom’s cooking.

I’ll only stay one night. Just long enough to get cleaners lined up to take care of my condo.

But then, everything’s going back to normal.

Without Kami, but that’s another story.





Eight





Kami



I’m not usually a rule-breaker. When you break rules, you get in trouble, and getting in trouble is conflict, and conflict and I are no more friends than anger and I are friends.

Which is why I’ve decided that the only way Sugarbear and I are going to survive her living at my house until I can locate a farm, zoo, shelter, or sanctuary that I approve of is to convince myself she’s actually a dog.

It’s been remarkably effective so far.

Kami, what’s that weird noise in your carport?

Oh, that’s my new dog. She has vocal cord issues.

Kami, what’s the hay for?

My new dog’s on a special diet.

Kami, why are you walking a cow?

That’s not a cow, that’s my new dog.

I’ve said that last one at least three times this morning as my three—I mean four—dogs and I have circled the block to get all of us some exercise. We’re a few houses from home when I hear an engine approach and slow down.

I sigh, because there are only so many times I can repeat that Sugarbear’s a dog before someone gets suspicious.

And I don’t mean about her not being a cow.

I mean about my sanity.

“You ladies need a lift?” a very familiar, nerve-rattling, nipple-tightening, belly-flipping voice calls.

My vajayjay hears you want a ride?, and yes, it means that kind of ride, and it’s also totally on board with this plan.

Clearly, I need to have a come to Jesus meeting with my vagina.

Or possibly I need to introduce her to something better than Nick’s cock.

My three dogs all lunge for the road and the car, even Tiger, my teacup Yorkie, who tends to freak out at the sight of her own shadow.

Only Sugarbear stays calm, which is good, because I don’t know how I’d handle being yanked down the road by a three-hundred-pound-and-growing calf.

I mean puppy.

“Down, Pancake. Back, Dixie. Tiger, stop.” I hold tight to the leashes on my boxer and my spaniel, and I grab Tiger and pick her up.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I tell Nick.

“Moooooooo,” Sugarbear barks.

Yes, barks. I’m living fully in my fantasy, okay?

“It’s no trouble,” he continues. He coasts along beside us in his Cherokee while I pull my pack along toward home. “This car was built for hauling dogs and cows.”

And it hauled a cow—dog—that pooped in it just a couple days ago. “That’s nice, but I only have dogs.”

For once, he’s silent.

But only momentarily.

“I didn’t mean for you to take the cow.”

“Please stop calling my new dog a cow.” I know. I know. I’ve lost my mind.

And then he laughs, and that rich, happy, intoxicating sound makes all of my determination waver.

He’s not a bad guy. He’s funny, even if some of his pranks push boundaries. He’s loyal and protective to the people inside his circle, and generous in his own unique ways, even if he overlooks the little things. Though he did always make sure I got as much out of our physical relationship as he did.

And why did we stop that again? my vagina asks.

The engine stops, and his car door slams. Sugarbear stops too, so I tug on her leash. “C’mon, sweet girl.”

She doesn’t move. Pancake and Dixie are jumping all over Nick, and Tiger is straining toward him.

“Who’s a good girl? Are you a good girl?”

I’m trying not to watch him love all over my dogs, because watching a man love on animals is almost as potent as watching a man hold a baby, and I need to be immune to Nick’s charm, but I can’t stop myself. He lets them lick all over his face and stick their noses in his crotch and put paw prints all over his track pants without complaint.

His light brown hair is disheveled, his green eyes are tired, and he’s started growing his beard for the season, so he’s extra scruffy in the cheeks. But he’s still pulling off the panty-melting smile.

My dogs are even susceptible. Dixie just flopped on her back and spread her legs like she’d give him full access if he was interested.

“What do you want?” The question is harsher than I mean it to be, but I’m caving. I can feel it. I’m giving in to the magic that is Nick Murphy.

He straightens and hits me with those imploring green eyes that always flip my belly inside out. “I missed your birthday.”

I steel myself against my body’s instinctive reaction to full-blown eye contact with him. First there’s the soda bubbles fizzing through my veins. Then the tightening in my nipples. The heat between my legs. And the extra hard thumping of my heart.