She turned back and found Finn looking quietly amused. Their gazes locked and held for a long beat, like maybe he was taking her pulse from across the room, absorbing the fact that she was drenched and breathless. The corners of his mouth twitched. She’d amused him again.
People shifted between them. The place was crowded as always, but when the way was clear again, Finn was still looking at her, steady and unblinking, those dark green eyes flickering with something other than amusement now, something that began to warm her from the inside out.
Three weeks and it was the same every single time . . .
Pru considered herself fairly brave and maybe a little more than fairly adventurous—-but not necessarily forward. It wasn’t easy for her to connect with people.
Which was the only excuse she had for jerking her gaze away, pretending to eye the room.
The pub itself was small and cozy. One half bar, the other half pub designated for dining, the décor was dark woods reminiscent of an old thatched inn. The tables were made from whiskey barrels and the bar itself had been crafted out of repurposed longhouse--style doors. The hanging brass lantern lights and stained--glass fixtures along with the horse--chewed, old--fence baseboards finished the look that said antique charm and friendly warmth.
Music drifted out of invisible speakers, casting a jovial mood, but not too loud so as to make conversation difficult. There was a wall of windows and also a rack of accordion wood and glass doors that opened the pub on both sides, one to the courtyard, the other to the street, giving a view down the hill to the beautiful Fort Mason Park and Marina Green, and the Golden Gate Bridge behind that.
All of which was fascinating, but not nearly as fascinating as Finn himself, which meant that her eyes, the traitors, swiveled right back to him.
He pointed at her.
“Me?” she asked, even though he couldn’t possibly hear her from across the place.
With a barely there smile, he gave her a finger crook.
Yep. Her.
The Trouble With Mistletoe
Chapter 1
#TheTroubleWithMistletoe
THE SUN HAD barely come up and Willa Davis was -already elbow deep in puppies and poo—-a typical day for her. As owner of the South Bark Mutt Shop,
she spent much of her time scrubbing, cajoling, primping, hoisting—-and more cajoling. She wasn’t above bribing either.
Which meant she kept pet treats in her pockets, making her irresistible to any and all four--legged creatures within scent range. A shame though that a treat hadn’t yet been invented to make her irresistible to two--legged male creatures as well. Now that would’ve been handy.
But then again, she’d put herself on a Man--Time--Out so she didn’t need such a thing.
“Wuff!”
This from one of the pups she was bathing. The little guy wobbled in close and licked her chin.
“That’s not going to butter me up,” she said, but it totally did and unable to resist that face she returned the kiss on the top of his cute little nose.
One of Willa’s regular grooming clients had brought in her eight--week--old heathens—-er, golden retriever puppies.
Six of them.
It was over an hour before the shop would open at nine a.m. but her client had called in a panic because the pups had rolled in horse poo. God knew where they’d found horse poo in the Cow Hollow district of San Francisco—-maybe a policeman’s horse had left an undignified pile in the street—-but they were a mess.
And now so was Willa.
Two puppies, even three, were manageable, but handling six by herself bordered on insanity. “Okay, listen up,” she said to the squirming, happily panting puppies in the large tub in her grooming room. “Everyone sit.”
One and Two sat. Three climbed up on top of the both of them and shook his tubby little body, drenching Willa in the process.
Meanwhile, Four, Five, and Six made a break for it, paws pumping, ears flopping over their eyes, tails wagging wildly as they scrabbled, climbing over each other like circus tumblers to get out of the tub.
“Rory?” Willa called out. “Could use another set of hands back here.” Or three . . .
No answer. Either her twenty--three--year--old employee had her headphones cranked up to make--me--deaf--please or she was on Instagram and didn’t want to lose her place. “Rory!”
The girl finally poked her head around the corner, phone in hand, screen lit.
Yep. Instagram.
“Holy crap,” Rory said, eyes wide. “Literally.”
Willa looked down at herself. Yep, her apron and clothes were splattered with suds and water and a few other questionable stains that might or might not be related to the horse poo. She’d lay money down on the fact that her layered strawberry blonde hair had rioted, resembling an explosion in a down--pillow factory. Good thing she’d forgone makeup at the early emergency call so at least she didn’t have mascara running down her face. “Help.”