She paused at the threshold and tilted her face up to his, trying desperately to focus even as the rest of her began to sway backwards in response to the change in perception.
“I suppose you feel the need to see me safely inside?”
His mouth quirked at the corners even as his arm kept her from doing a Nestea-plunge back down the steps. “The thought did occur to me, yes.”
She gave a resigned sigh, then stepped through the doorway. Michael followed in directly behind her, closing the door. Almost instantly there was an odd thumping sound from below. With obvious effort, the huge Basset pulled himself to his feet. His ears were so long he actually tripped on them in his excitement, head-butting Maggie in the process and pushing her against the wall.
Michael chuckled. “At least I know where you got that last dance move from.”
Maggie shot him a reproachful glance, but she couldn’t really be offended when she caught the playful smile tugging at his lips. “Now you know.”
The hound turned soulful eyes up toward Michael. “Michael, meet George. George, Michael.” She chuckled. “Ha. George Michael. Like Wham.” Uh-oh, she thought. She was becoming downright silly.
George immediately laid himself across Michael’s shoes and rolled over to offer his belly. Maggie’s eyes widened as much as possible through the swelling. Normally George would be slinking off to hide about now – he did not like strangers. It took him forever to warm up to Sherri, and she gave him cookies.
“Would you mind petting him?” Maggie asked, pledging silently to abstain from saying anything else ridiculous. “He’s a real hands-on type of guy, and I just don’t think I can bend over right now.”
Michael crouched down and gave George a good and thorough rub across the chest. George gave a little doggie moan of pleasure. The foyer started spinning around her, and Maggie placed her hand on his shoulder for balance.
“Watch him,” Maggie warned Michael, “he’s vicious.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
*
Maggie swayed a little, a timely reminder of why he had brought her home in the first place.
“Sorry, big guy,” he said to George, standing slowly. “But I think she needs me a little more than you do at the moment.”
Maggie snorted derisively, but it was done with so little effort it didn’t make much of an impact. As if to prove him wrong, she forced herself to stand on her own. With much focus, she made her way wobbily down the narrow hallway, keeping one hand on the wall for support. Michael followed slowly behind. He wondered at her stubbornness and remained ready to catch her if she fell, which looked increasingly probable with each step she took.
With nearly all of his attention on Maggie, he only caught brief glimpses of her home as she led him down the hall. The house was old, he could tell, but it had a distinctly homey feel. It was immaculately clean, but decidedly lived in. The colors were warm and welcoming, the hardwood glowing on either side of the multicolored runner that ran down the center. The banister on the stairs, he noticed as they passed, was probably the original, intricately hand-carved from a century or more ago, smoothed from years of use. This wasn’t a house, he thought. This was a home.
She pushed through a swinging door and into a kitchen big enough to rival the one back at the Pub. It was huge, spanning the entire width of the house. A single light burned over the sink at the far end, illuminating the large space in a warm glow.
Michael inhaled deeply. The room held the aroma of a bake shop – a mouth-watering combination of freshly baked-bread, butter, cinnamon, and chocolate.
Images of Maggie bustling around in here filled his mind: pulling a fresh loaf of bread out of the oven, washing dishes at the sink while wearing a pretty pink apron, her face lighting up as she turned and saw him coming through the back door. It was so clear, more like a memory than a stray thought.
Whoa. Where the hell did that come from?
“Ah,” she said, misinterpreting the momentary longing on his face, “a man after my own heart. Here.” Maggie hobbled over to the counter and grabbed a covered platter piled high with cookies.
Michael, a little shaken by the clarity of the image and the intensity of its effect, accepted the plate with one hand and steadied her with the other. “Maggie,” he commanded, his voice slightly less professional than it had been earlier. “Please sit.” Her face was growing paler by the minute; he hadn’t missed the way the plate trembled in her hands.
She did without argument, which he figured pretty much confirmed his suspicions that she was winding down in a big way. So far she had resisted his every attempt to help her.
“I made them today,” she said slowly, as if it was an effort. “I was so nervous...” She tried to conceal a yawn with her hand.
Michael took one, mainly because she seemed to expect him to. “They’re delicious,” he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. It wouldn’t be long now. Her eyes were losing focus, her lids growing heavier by the second, and still she fought against it.