The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) (9 page)

The darkened space wrapped around them. Cozy, intimate. Tempting. For a second, she entertained a few non-neighborly thoughts about Luke Winslow. The same thoughts of him in her house, in her bed, in her . . . Yeah,
those
thoughts that had spiced her last several nights. “I’ll . . . uh, keep that in mind.”

Things had shifted from a tentative détente to sexy innuendo. Her nerve endings stood on alert, hyperaware of Luke’s presence. Of the deep timbre of his voice, the dark notes of his words. Of the careless sexiness of his unshaven face, his wayward hair. And of all he had hidden behind those sunglasses.

Yeah, she needed to get involved with him like she needed to start a home improvement business. Then why had she looked for him every time she’d been in her yard? Why had she wondered about him at least a dozen times in the days since that first disastrous meeting?

Rescue the dog, get out of here, and get back to work. And stop fantasizing about the neighbor.

“Why don’t we uh, look in another room?” she said.

He cleared his throat, as if he shared the same awkward thoughts she’d been having. “Good idea.”

She waited for him to lead the way. He didn’t move. “Uh . . . which room?”

He waved down the darkened hall. “Pick one. Don’t touch anything.”

Olivia headed down the hall. No dog. She turned right—dining room. She flicked on the wall switch, flooding the room with light.

A long pale maple table centered the space, flanked by a half-dozen matching chairs. A dying fern struggled for light in the corner, beside a Cannondale bike leaning against the wall. The china cabinet held a few dishes, the buffet nothing more than a silver bowl. Except for a slight layer of dust, the room was as tight and organized as library shelves. Neat stacks of papers sat on one end of the table, anchored by a trio of small white boxes, like the kind used for jewelry.

Olivia bent down, looked under the table, and didn’t see the dog. She was about to turn and leave when those boxes aroused her curiosity. She reached out, drew her hand back, then reached again. What was Luke doing with so many boxes of jewelry?

She told herself she wasn’t going to look inside. That she didn’t care what Luke Winslow had on his dining room table or why he maintained his distance. Was it just because they were still essentially strangers? Or did he have something more to hide, like Lois and her garden?

Before she could think twice, she had pried the lid off the top box on the pile, then flipped open the blue velvet box inside.

Nestled on a soft cotton bed sat a hefty and impressive gold medal, hanging from a thick red-white-and-blue-striped ribbon. Two anchors flanked either side of a circular emblem.

United States Coast Guard.

Coast Guard? Him?

That man’s a bona fide hero.

“I told you not to touch anything.”

She wheeled around at the sharp tones. As she did, the box slipped from her grasp and landed on the tile floor with a clatter. She scrambled to pick it up, flipped the lid closed, then wrangled the white top back in place. “I’m sorry. I just . . .” What excuse did she have? “I saw the medal, and I was curious. What’s it for?”

She held out the box to him. Instead of taking it, he cursed, then turned on his heel. “Just get the damned dog and get out.”

She stood there for several long seconds, the medal box heavy in her hands. What had caused the sudden shift in mood? Was it something to do with the medal? But that didn’t make sense. Weren’t medals given for doing good things? Why would he be angry about that?

Whatever the reason, she refused to pry. Prying meant getting involved, and she had enough on her plate right now. A plate that sure as heck didn’t have room for a relationship or the messy task of straightening out someone else’s baggage. Hell, she barely had time to fix her own. So she put the medal back on the table and left the room to do what Luke had asked—get the dog and get out.

She went the opposite direction from where Luke had gone and headed into the living room. This room, like the others, was neat and tidy, but the lights were off, shades drawn. The air conditioner pumped a steady stream of cool air into the space. She flicked on a small table lamp. Her gaze swept the room and then, finally, in the corner under an end table, lay the golden.

“Hey, there you are,” Olivia said. She bent down, keeping one hand splayed, and inched her way toward the dog. The golden watched her, wary, tense, and then as Olivia closed the gap, the dog scrambled back, deeper into the shadows. Olivia retreated. Tried again. Same result. The dog’s eyes remained wide, its tail still, its breath coming in fast bursts. “Oh, puppy, I won’t hurt you. Come on out.”

More scrambling back and panting hard. Scared. Olivia couldn’t blame him. Poor thing had surely been through a lot.

“Let me try.”

She turned toward Luke’s voice. He was leaning against the doorjamb, watching her, still wearing those damned sunglasses even though the room was dim. Had he been there the whole time? “Sure. He’s a little skittish. You’ll probably have better luck with him. After all, he came to your house. Obviously, he trusts you.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Maybe because he can relate to you.” The words were out before she could stop them.

He scoffed. “Or maybe he’s just like you.”

“Me?”

He took a step forward, those sunglasses locked on her features. Why did he wear them still? In the dimly lit house? Did it have something to do with the scar? The medal?

Still, she got the sense that even if he couldn’t see well in the low light, he could see everything about her, while keeping everything about himself hidden. She wanted to look away, wanted to do anything but connect with this man, but every time he came within five feet of her, that intoxicating thread began to knit a little tighter.

“You’re the one who came marching into my yard”—he took another step closer to her, his voice low, dark—“demanding that I help you find that dog.”

She raised her chin. “I didn’t demand. I . . . asked.” Then she shot him a smile and eased her tone. “Nicely.”

“I think we’re using different dictionaries.” The darkness in his voice yielded to a slight uptick. “My definition of
demand
is flanked by a picture of you.”

She laughed, and, as if joining in on the moment, the dog’s tail thumped. Luke turned toward the sound, and when he did, the light caught his features and she saw the rest of what the sunglasses had been hiding. She sucked in a quick gasp.

The wide arm of the sunglasses striped a black band across the scar running down one side of his face, spidering away from his left eye in thick red lines. An angry indent punctured the space above his brow.

“What . . . ?” The sentence trailed off, caught in the awkward tug-of-war between curiosity and propriety.

He swung back to face her. “You’re staring at me. I can feel it. I’m not a goddamn freak of nature.”

“What . . . happened?”

“You want to see? You want to know?” He cursed, then ripped off the sunglasses. A dark wash deepened the blue in his left eye, and though his right eventually zeroed in on her, the left didn’t. The pieces filtered into place. Luke’s inability to see the dog. The way he measured his steps. The dusty but tidy, organized house. The sunglasses. The attitude.

She reached out a hand, curious, concerned. “Are you okay? I mean, is this . . . is it . . .”

He jerked away. “You’re not here for me. You’re here for the dog.”

She sensed the angry growl of a wounded animal trying to keep others away. How she knew that feeling. In the days after her divorce, she’d called in sick, curled up on the couch, and avoided the world. The dishes had piled up, the dust had multiplied. She hadn’t answered the phone or the door or done a damned thing for days. Then her mother arrived, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, dragging Olivia out for a terrible lunch at a loud, busy restaurant with waiters who sang off-key. And made her laugh for the first time in forever.

After that, her days had brightened, one after another, and she’d once again found herself and her spirit. Maybe Luke needed to do the same.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Then don’t.” He let out a gust and surveyed the living room. “Where’s the dog?”

“He’s right there. Can’t you—” She cut off the sentence. “Sorry.”

“What do you keep apologizing for?”

“Nothing.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist—or an idiot therapist—to realize that the pain from the scar had penetrated far deeper than the surface of his skin.

“Then stop doing it and just tell me where the dog is.”

“In the corner, under the end table. The one closest to the hall.”

He moved forward, with short, tentative steps. He skirted the coffee table, almost nicking it with his shin, before coming to a stop in front of the end table. He bent down. “Hey, you. If you don’t get out of there, someone’s going to put a coaster on you.”

The dog’s tail thumped again. But he didn’t move.

“Come on,” Luke said, his voice softer this time, a low, bass song. “You don’t want to stay there.”

The tail thumped some more. The dog inched forward, long nails scratching against the wood floor. But still he didn’t emerge.

“If you stay there, you’ll have to live with me. And I’m not nearly as much fun, or as nice, as that one.” Luke thumbed behind him. “She’s got dog food and treats and a friend for you. Everyone needs a friend, right?”

The dog’s tail rat-a-tatted.

“So do me a favor, and come on out. The dark is no place to live. Trust me.”

Olivia watched from the sidelines, her breath caught in her throat.
Sometimes, people who don’t want to talk will talk to a dog instead of a person.
Her heart broke for the injured man, trying so hard to connect with the injured dog. And for the dog, so scared to trust.

After a moment, the golden crawled forward, then rose on all fours, and pressed his nose to Luke’s leg. His tail wagged, slapping against the end table. Luke put a hand on the golden’s thick neck, and the dog jerked his nose to Luke’s wrist.

“Can you keep him there?” Olivia whispered. “I want to check out the injury.”

Luke nodded and began to scratch behind the dog’s ear. The golden leaned into his palm and let out a contented groan. “Just a few minutes more,” he said in a quiet, almost singsong voice, “while the mean lady from next door checks you out.”

“Hey!” she whispered. “I’m not mean.”

Luke shot her a grin, then went back to scratching the dog. “Just do what you gotta do.”

“By the way, it’s definitely a he,” she said.

“Well, whoever this dog is, he took a chance coming to my door for help. Good thing you’re next door.”

“Yeah, good thing.” He was far too thin for an average male golden. Olivia leaned in closer and looked at the dog’s belly. The cut ran along his side, a long, nasty gash that looked a few days old, maybe longer. The blood had crusted and dried. The wound didn’t seem infected, but she wasn’t sure. Even without touching the dog she could tell the poor thing was malnourished. The dog’s thick coat hung limp from his skin, and his ribs rippled under the golden fur. Who had done this to this beautiful animal? And why? Olivia resisted the urge to hug the dog to her chest and protect him from ever being hurt again.

She sighed and rocked back on her heels. “He looks better than the first day I saw him, but he’s not out of the woods. I can do basic care, but he needs a vet. I don’t know one in town yet. Finding a good local doc is on my to-do list.”

The dog lay down and rested his head on his paws. Luke gave him a final pat, then rose. “I know a vet.”

“Good.” Olivia got to her feet too, as the dog closed its eyes and seemed to go to sleep. For whatever reason, the golden was comfortable here with Luke. Then why wasn’t Olivia? Why was every cell in her body hyperaware of his every move?

“Thank you, Luke,” she said.

He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did a lot. You calmed him down. Made him feel at home.” Olivia looked down at the dog, who had moved his snout in the direction of Luke’s feet. “Made a friend, too. Not bad for an ogre.”

He laughed. “I’m back to that, am I?”

He had a nice laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep inside him. Luke Winslow surprised her. A man who could shut the door on himself so fast it could knock a person over, then switch gears with a smile, a laugh.

“You keep rescuing dogs and people are going to confuse you with a nice guy.”

“Trust me, that’s never going to happen.” He moved closer to her. His scent wrapped around her, drawing her in, closer. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she wondered what secrets lurked in the storm-tossed hue of his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“For the dog. Remember?” But was she? Because right now, it seemed she had passed concern for the golden and edged into concern for the man. She wondered what would happen if she dragged him to a restaurant where the waiters harmonized. Would they find common ground over a greasy pizza and a tinny rendition of “Moon River”?