Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(7)

And more exercise.

And for this raccoon to act like I’m a scary human and run away.

He tosses the penis lollipops like they’re last year’s hard drives and he has his eye on this year’s double-core processors.

“No, you want the lollipops,” I tell him. “They taste so much better than Thor’s hammer, I promise.”

He skitters closer.

I shriek and kick at him. He pauses, but only for a beat before he picks up the pace. Because, dummy me, my flailing is just making the sparkly thing on my boot flash more.

The only other weapons at hand are some pocket lint and damp grass clippings, and I somehow doubt hurling either of those will slow him down. Even if I had a rock or a garden gnome on hand, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Back in high school, I could fire a softball from third base at sixty-four miles per hour, but I’m so out of practice I almost strained my shoulder tossing a wad of paper into the recycling bin last week.

Which means I have exactly one option left.

“Help!” I yell. “Help! Rabid raccoon!”

The raccoon chitters back accusingly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I protest. “You’re the one stealing my garbage and getting aggressive about it.”

I swear the little monster rolls his eyes before hunching down in prelude to a pounce. I’m bracing myself to have my eyes clawed out when a calm voice behind me says, “George, back off.”

A calm, masculine, I dreamt-about-that-sexy-rumble-all-night voice…

The raccoon pauses.

My heart doesn’t. It slams against my ribs while I tell myself that’s not Ryan behind me. It’s his voice twin. Someone who sounds exactly like him. And who smells like soap and lemon and fire hose and can control raccoons with his varmint-whispering skills.

“Put the anal beads back and stay out of Savannah’s trash,” he continues.

I gape at the Christmas lights draped around the raccoon’s body.

No wonder I couldn’t find the outlet plug.

The raccoon—George, apparently—shuffles back around to the other side of the trash can and reclaims the penis lollipops, but makes no move to put the anal beads draped over his shoulders back in the trash.

I turn slowly, first noting that there’s a black truck parked in the driveway next door that I haven’t seen before.

And now there’s a big, broad, sleepy-eyed Ryan O’Dell bending over me. “You okay? George is mostly harmless. Likes shiny things, though.”

He offers a hand, and I eyeball his long, blunt fingers.

“You know the raccoon,” I say, easing out of my crab-crawl position. My back twinges sharply, and I wonder if I should add yoga or something to my daily hikes around the lake while I’m here on vacation.

“George Cooney? We go way back. He adopted me when he was just a kit.” We both look back at the raccoon, who grins as he waddles around to Ryan’s side. “Did Savannah mention the rocks on the cans? That helps keep him out of the trash.”

“Oh. The big rocks.”

“Yeah. The big rocks. We learned that the hard way after she tossed out a bunch of half-melted dildos last year. George planted them in our vegetable garden. Was real torn up when they didn’t grow.”

“Did you remember to fertilize them regularly?”

He laughs, that easy rumble of his that always made me feel ten times funnier than I am.

But I’m not funny. Ryan just likes to laugh. He has the easy-going charm thing down pat, which was part of the reason I didn’t recognize his voice right away yesterday. The Tough Firefighter tone coming from him was a surprise.

A sexy surprise, that I do my best not to think about as Ryan says, “No, we didn’t. That must have been where we went wrong. But we ended up with a bumper crop of cucumbers. Hoping for the same this year. You’re welcome to grab a few once they get ripe.” He hooks a thumb at the cottage next door with a wink that turns my panties inside out. “Now, come on, let me help you up.”

He holds his hand out again, fingers spread wide to reveal white scar tissue between his right thumb and forefinger. It’s something new, like that faint white line on his cheek, and it sends a jolt of worry through my chest. Fighting fires is a dangerous job and no matter how deeply this man mortified me when we were kids, I don’t like the idea of him being in danger.

I don’t like it one little bit.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine. I’m fine.” I scramble to my feet on my own, feeling like a fool.

Clearly, Ryan O’Dell still gets under my skin.

And Savannah should’ve warned me about her neighbor.

“Cool. Large rocks. Cucumbers. Got it.” I dust my butt as his gaze dips down to my chest, and I realize I’m wearing my Space Vikings Invade Butte game launch party tee.

The one the printer screwed up that reads Space Vikings Invade Butt instead.

I clamp my arms over my chest, trying desperately to cover the worst of it without being too obvious. I love a goofy tee as much as the next girl, but not in front of this man, who already thinks I’m the saddest nerd ever to crawl out from under an old Atari. “I’m sure Savannah will be back soon. I won’t have the chance to mess up the trash much longer.”

“You think she’s coming home that fast?”