Clyde never offered solutions when she grieved the loss of Darwin and Marcella. Instead, he quietly urged her to move forward by redirecting her thoughts, giving them focus on the here and now. Something neither of them would ever take for granted again. Today was no exception. “I think I might have found something to distract you,” he said, kissing her forehead before pivoting on his heel and grinning as he headed for the storefront door. He popped it open, unhooking something from the doorknob.
“You didn’t.” She gave him a stern frown all while her lips turned upward in a smile.
Clyde gripped a pink leash in his hands. Attached was the mud diest, mangiest, most matted brown and white dog she’d seen in all her pet rescues. A black smudge circled one eye, and his alert ears stood high on his head.
And he had no right front paw.
“I found him outside the 7-Eleven, digging in the alleyway. I figured he’d match dog number six. They make one whole dog if you put them together,” he said with a husky chuckle.
Delaney squealed when Clyde let the leash fall to the floor and their newest addition tackled her, lavishing her with smelly dog kisses. She couldn’t stop the giggle of joy Clyde’s bringing home a stray brought, or the swell of her heart as she made note of the fact that he totally and completely got it.
Lock, stock, and now seven dogs and counting.
Clyde dropped to the floor beside her, pressing a hand to the dog’s backside to encourage him to sit. Clyde nuzzled her cheek with his nose, setting the butterflies in her belly free. “So tell me, fruit cup, how do you feel about actually naming this one?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno. How do you feel about a jealous canine uprising?”
“I was sorta thinking maybe something refined and classy like Tripod. How ’bout you?”
Her giggle tinkled in her ears while the new puppy buried his head in her hands, lapping at her fingers. “No go. That’s like calling a pit bull Fluffy.”
“Okay, then, what about Norville or Ned or Aloysius?”
Dogs one through six had sensed a new presence and began to bark. “I say you’ve had too much sugar today, Clyde the Reincarnated.”
His eyes became serious when he cupped her chin and captured her gaze. “So, you in?”
“In?”
“Yeah, are we keeping him?”
“Definitely.”
“No backsies?”
“Of course no backsies,” she replied.
His sigh was big, and it held distinct relief. “So you are in. We’re keeping him.”
Delaney nodded with a wide smile, warming at the word we in the equation. “All the way.” All. The. Way.
“Frank Sinatra was the first to record it, I think; 1957.”
Delaney cocked her head at him. He was spewing music trivia—and that always meant he was stressed about something. It was probably the consumption-of-bad-preservatives kind of guilt. He’d better not have had a cheeseburger on the way home after she’d lovingly prepared a wheat germ salad and salmon burgers for their dinner—she’d have his ass on a platter. “Yeah, Frank. But whatever has you freaking has nothing to do with Frank. So spill, honey.”
Clyde smiled, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “You just said yes—it geeked me out for a minute. Nerves about asking and all. It’s over. I’m good.”
The many facets of Clyde. “Now in English—for the non-Mensas of the world.”
His grin was mysterious and playful. “I brought home a dog and asked if you were all in, and you said yes.”
“Code for?”
“The dog is a symbol of my desire to mate with you, honey. He’s my engagement gift to you. You know, like in foreign countries when the suitor brings his woman’s family a wildebeest or whatever to declare his love?”
Though her heart raced, and her stomach danced a tango, she teased, “I thought that was goats, or a herd of sheep.”
“Sorry—I couldn’t find any sheep. So a dog it’ll have to be. And you already said yes. That means no backsies.”
Her giggles filled the store, startling the dog, who whined with impatience. That he’d brought her the one thing he knew she couldn’t deny was what meant he could stay.
Forever.
“I did not either. Maybe I’d prefer a goat, Atwell. Goats make cheese. I like goat cheese—”
Tackling her to the floor, Clyde’s rumble of laughter penetrated her chest—her heart. “Goats don’t make cheese, honey,” he corrected, shooting her a smile. “You make me batshit, Delaney Markham, and the sick thing is, I like it. Nay, I love it, and you. So, one more time: You all in?”
“All”—she punctuated the word with a kiss to his yummy lips and a breathy sigh—“in.”
Clyde offered his fist to her.
She knocked it, and they blew it up.
Together.