Neighbors with Benefits (Anderson Brothers, #2)(2)

After filling his glass with ice, he remembered it was morning, and his homecoming routine would have to be adjusted. Instead of scotch, he filled the tumbler with water, then wandered into the bedroom to take off his suit and tie and stopped short.

Feathers.

Everywhere. Like a pillow had exploded—or been ripped apart by the teeth of a wild, savage beast. “Dammit!” he said under his breath. The dog leapt off the bed and then wiggled underneath it.

In a trembling falsetto, he mimicked Dr. Whittelsey’s singsong voice. “The dog is completely housetrained and has never torn up anything.” A single feather, still airborne, landed on his suit lapel. Taking a deep, calculated, calming breath, he set his drink on the nightstand, and then gently plucked the feather from his jacket and deposited it in the trashcan next to the bed. One in the right place was better than none.

And still the booming bass from Club House Sitter continued its relentless attack on his already frayed nerves. One thing at a time. Dog first.

“Never torn anything up, my ass,” he grumbled, getting down on his hands and knees to peer under the bed. Big, brown eyes stared back. Then blinked, and a majority of his anger floated away like feathers.

It wasn’t the dog’s fault, really. Most likely it was as unhappy about this arrangement as he was. No. That wasn’t accurate. Nothing and no one could be as unhappy about this as he was. “Dog therapy,” he muttered. “Total bullshit.”

The dog stuck its tongue out and for a moment, it looked like it was smiling.

“I’m glad you agree. If I hadn’t promised her that I would take care of you personally for the three weeks she’s in Europe, you’d be at a boarding kennel,” he said, still on his hands and knees. “But I did promise because my shrink thinks you’ll break my routine and make me more flexible.”

The racket from next door continued as the dog flipped its back legs behind it and stretched out on its belly under the bed.

“Don’t get comfortable. I don’t want you in my bedroom, so come on out.” He crooked his finger like he would to an employee across the office lobby. Only, unlike his employees, the dog didn’t come running. It simply looked at him, panted, and tapped its tail on the floor.

“Now, listen, dog. Let’s get this straight. This is my house. You will do as I command. Now, out!”

It blinked its huge eyes while the rest of its hairy body remained motionless, except its tail, which kept wagging.

Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom, the bass pounded.

Shit. This was a f*cking nightmare. “I said, out!”

Rolling to its side, it gave the appearance of being completely at ease and unaffected.

He reached, but couldn’t touch the animal because it had positioned itself directly under the center of the low king-sized bed.

A frustrated growl rumbled in Michael’s chest, then morphed into a defeated groan. He’d been bested by a ten-pound animal with pink nail polish and a bow in its hair. “I can’t believe I’m paying Dr. Whittelsey to torture me like this.”

The dog lowered its chin to its paws and closed its eyes.

“Okay. You win this round, but if you think you’re sleeping in here, you’ve got it wrong.”

Before he’d gotten to his feet, a relentless eardrum-piercing pulse came from the other side of the wall.

“What now?”

God, he missed the days when he could come home to a peaceful, relaxing environment to unwind. Recently, it was like a living in a nightclub or video arcade with thumping music and now a deafening alarm clock of some kind.

The music stopped, but the shrill beeping continued. It wasn’t an alarm clock, he realized. It was his neighbor’s smoke detector.

Shit. She was going to burn the place down.

One thing at a time. Get out first, and then, if need be, call 911. That would require his keys and phone, which were on the kitchen counter. Purposefully, he strode to the kitchen, calm and level headed, as was his style. Everything had an order—evacuating a burning building included. People first. Possessions last.

On his way to the kitchen, a preliminary check-list ran through his head for a worst-case scenario: Call 911 and report the fire, call his parents and brothers to let them know he’s okay, call his insurance agent and file a loss claim, call the office and make sure things are running smoothly, and then call his tailor to order clothes to replace those lost in the fire.

First though, he needed to get out and assess the seriousness of the situation, which hopefully, was nothing more than a false alarm.

As he grabbed his phone from the counter, his foot crashed into something: the powder blue carrier. The dog was still under the bed. Damn. He couldn’t leave it there. People first, he reminded himself. It wasn’t a person, but it wasn’t a possession either.

Still, the shrill pulse penetrated the wall and a faint smell of smoke accompanied it now. Maybe it wasn’t a false alarm.

Shit, shit, shit. “Come on, dog!” he called, striding back to the bedroom. “We need to get out of here. Dog! I’m serious.” When he reached the bed, he dropped to his knees and saw… nothing. It wasn’t there.

He jumped to his feet and ran his hands through his hair. Everything had an order and sequence. Even chaos.

Over the alarm, there was another sound: a loud, high-pitched yip.

Michael skidded into the living room to find the dog sitting patiently by the door.