Layton motioned for the cocktail waitress, and I asked for a glass of cabernet before turning my attention to the guy in front of me. I drank him in despite telling myself he wasn’t my type. Although, there was something different about him ... a little bit of a tan and something else, a glow maybe? Did men glow?
“So, how’ve you been?” He cocked his head and focused on me.
“Pretty good, busy. We’re throwing ideas around for the holidays already.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It will be ninety outside, and I’m looking at ideas for low-calorie hot cocoa and how many calories we burn while sledding. Takes all the fun out of the season.”
“Damn.” He laughed, a warm baritone more genuine and relaxed now. “How many calories do you burn sledding?”
The server brought my wine, interrupting my time to answer.
“Cheers.” I clinked my wineglass against Layton’s tumbler. “Something like four hundred.”
“Wow.”
“More than sex.”
Layton raised an eyebrow, and it caught on a small lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead. I resisted an urge to run my finger through his hair and push it back. Instead, I gulped my wine to hide my embarrassment and nodded.
“Hmm, interesting. I may have to move where there’s snow. Although Harriette likes the beach.”
I giggled as if we did this every Wednesday after work. And every Friday. And again on Sunday over brunch. Sitting here next to Layton, our thighs brushing, no pretenses. Just us.
The nice guy and the bitch.
Beauty (him) and the Beast (me).
I swept back my negative thoughts and released the smile that so desperately wanted to come out. “Tell me about the elusive Harriette.”
He winked. “She’s my girl, tried and true. I love that bitch.”
I gave him a fake scowl.
“It’s what they call a female dog—”
“I know,” I said, grinning as I interrupted his explanation.
“She’s really pretty awesome. A buddy of mine got one of her littermates for his fiancé a few years back, and I went over for a drink and knew I needed one. The next day, I drove out to meet the breeder and came home the proud owner of a golden retriever.”
“I’ve never had a dog,” I admitted.
“Really?” His eyebrows perked up in disbelief.
“My dad worked a lot, and then when he passed away, it was just my mom and me. Too much work, I guess.”
“Sorry to hear that. Your dad, not the dog thing.”
He reached out and his knuckles grazed my cheek in sympathy, starting a shiver that ran down my whole spine and shot back up again. I gave myself a mental shake, shocked that I was ready to get it on from a tender touch.
“I grew up in Arizona,” he added, “on the outskirts of Phoenix. My parents bought in Scottsdale when it was still cheap. We always had three or four dogs at a time, mostly little ones, Yorkies and Peekapoos. My mom loved them ... I guess they were her company while my dad worked. But those little guys were low maintenance compared to Harriette.”
“I couldn’t even imagine having a dog in my apartment.”
“One afternoon with my girl and you’ll be googling breeders.”
The conversation was getting too personal, too intimate and emotional, talking about his parents and his mom and his beloved dog. So I went for a topic change.
