“Whisky, I have to get back to the hotel,” I was trying to yank my hand out of his. I was trying but not succeeding.
He ignored me and kept walking to the house. One story, brick, nicely tended yard but you could tel no woman lived there. There were no pots for flowers and there weren’t any festive autumn decorations in sight. I would definitely have put out festive autumn decorations if I lived there.
I was trying not to think about other things I would do if I lived there when Hank stopped at the door and dropped my hand.
“Whisky…”
He unlocked then opened the door.
A chocolate lab bounded toward us.
“Oh my God!” I yel ed and crouched low. “What a cute dog!”
And he was cute, adorable.
The lab jumped on Hank and he commanded, “Down.” Then the lab stopped jumping and head-butted Hank in the thighs, got an ear scratch and then came at me. He knocked me on my ass on the front stoop and started licking my face.
“I hope you don’t use him as a guard dog,” I said, trying to scratch his ears as he jumped al over me.
“I think you can kiss whatever makeup you had left good-bye,” Hank noted.
I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
Hank went into the house while I got up and played with the dog and he came back with a lead.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Shamus.”
I clapped at Shamus and he came to me and sat on my feet while Hank put the lead on him. The minute the lead snapped into place, Shamus knew the dril and was aching for it. He headed for the sidewalk, snuffling the ground.
Hank grabbed my hand and we fol owed the dog.
After half a block, it hit me and I said, “This is not fair.”
“What?” Hank asked.
“Don’t play innocent with me, Hank Nightingale. You know what. The dog.”
Hank dropped my hand and slid his arm along my shoulders.
Then he stopped, Shamus stopped (though Shamus didn’t want to stop and his “come on you guys” glance over the shoulder said it al ) and I stopped.
Hank bent, kissed my temple and then his lips went to my ear.
“You try to be difficult and hard but I can tel you’re soft and easy,” he whispered.
I jerked my head back and scowled at him.
“I’m not soft!” I snapped.
“You cry at commercials,” he pointed out.
This, unfortunately, was true. Worse, I’d volunteered this information to him, just like the idiot I was.
“Wel , then, I’m not easy,” I went on stubbornly.
“We’l see.”
Shit.
*
We walked Shamus on a two block loop. Then Hank let us into his house.
I stood at the closed front door, trying to be obvious about wanting to leave (although I didn’t want to leave, I needed to leave) while Hank turned on some lamps.
The front door led to one big front room consisting of a living room to the right, dining area to the left, then a bar and set of cabinets that began a u-shaped kitchen.
It had been redone and looked nice. Gleaming hardwood floors, the kitchen completely refitted with oak cabinets and KitchenAid appliances, deep-seated, cushiony furniture covered in mocha twil and an old-beat up dining room table that looked cool.
It was (somewhat sparsely, but stil ) decorated in what could only be considered “Colorado”. A couple of old Colorado license plates with skiers stamped into them over the doorway to a hal , some Native American artifacts on the tables that looked careful y chosen, two framed prints of New Belgium Brewery beers (“Fat Tire” and “Skinny Dip”) over his twil couch.
That was kind of it for decoration. It wasn’t like he had an abundance of scented candles and toss pil ows, but it was enough to give the place a personality and homey feel. Like he lived there. Like he liked it there. Like he was proud of it and the work he’d done on it.
I thought of it with some nice, sturdy, black iron candle holders with mulberry scented candles and some curtains covering the blinds.
Stop decorating Hank’s house. I told myself and crossed my arms to emphasize my thoughts to myself.
“You want a drink?” Hank asked from the kitchen after he’d taken off Shamus’s lead. Through the floor and overhead cabinets, I could only see his waist and abs.
As with al things Hank, it was a good view.
Shamus sauntered over and sat on my feet again. I uncrossed my arms and scratched his ears.
“I want to go back to the hotel,” I answered.
“You’re spendin’ the night here,” Hank informed me, moving to the end of the counter that delineated the kitchen from the dining area and leaning a hip against it, then he crossed his arms.
My mouth dropped open and I stared.
Then I closed it.
“I’m not spending the night here,” I said.
His eyes looked lazy again.
My heart started beating faster.
“Come here,” Hank said softly.
“No, take me back to the hotel.”
“Come here and I’l convince you that you don’t want to go back to the hotel.”
Good God.