They got out of talking about the heavy as he guided them the rest of the way to his terrace flat and he parked in the back.
He wrestled her bags and suitcase up the walk while she rolled her carry-on and hugged her roses to her chest.
He let them into the boot room at the back.
She entered and stopped, taking it in, before he moved them into the kitchen.
She continued gazing around. “God, Dair, this is?—”
She ended her words abruptly on a high-pitched squeal.
This was because Sorcha, his Scottish Deerhound, came loping in, and after a cursory sniff and tail wag Dair’s way, she went right to Blake.
Blake edged away as Sorcha followed her.
“What is it?” she asked after she butted up against his kitchen worktop, staring at Sorcha like she was being cornered by a diseased rat.
Dair felt his neck muscles tighten, because he didn’t like this one bit.
It was a huge problem due to the fact it was a dealbreaker.
You liked him, you liked his dog.
You couldn’t love him, unless you loved his dog.
“She’s Sorcha, my dog.”
Blake’s overwrought gaze came to him. “It’s a dog?”
“She is, aye.”
“She’s huge.”
Sorcha was snuffling Blake’s hand.
“She’s a deerhound.”
“Dogs are supposed to fit in bags so you can take them shopping,” she declared.
Bloody hell.
“Are you going to eat me?” she asked Sorcha.
Sorcha panted.
“Even though you’re furry, when it gets cold, are you going to let me put a sweater on you?” Blake asked.
Sorcha’s body vibrated with excitement.
Bloody fucking hell.
Although Sorcha was taking the opportunity herself, Blake offered her hand for his dog to sniff. She did, before she licked it, then Blake gave her head a rubdown.
Dair relaxed.
“With all that beautiful, shaggy gray-white fur, I’m thinking, cashmere. Black, obviously. How about you?” Blake asked his dog.
Sorcha got even more excited.
