Charlie is the first to realize how wonderful this place is, nearly as soon as he tumbles out of the car. “Dad! Dad, there’s adog!”
“Is it friendly? Can we pet it?”
“I want a dog.”
“I wanted a dog first.”
“You wanted one of those dogs that always needs to be groomed and looks like a pompous arsehole.”
“I wanted a mutt!”
“You can only pet the dogs if you don’t argue with each other, and you can’t try to ride the dogs,” Bea calls from a concrete slab set a reasonable distance from the house but somewhat close to the broad deck on the farmhouse’s side, where she is monitoring a barbecue grill. “Sprite is the bigger one, and Digger is the furrier one.”
The boys both dash after the dogs lying in the shade beneath a large tree between the house and a row of fencing holding in grass.
“Be nice to the animals,” I call after them. “Your mother will have my head if either of you provokes a dog attack.”
“They’re pretty tame,” Bea tells me.
“So long as your hooligans don’t try to wrestle them or steal any of the goats,” Daphne adds behind her.
“Got ’em, boss,” Butch says. “Go and do…date things.”
“It’s not a date.”
He grunts, a noise that clearly meansif you say so.
Pinky shakes his head at me, also clearly thinking I’m daft for not realizing what this is.
Tank has the evening off, so he isn’t here to comment.
With five adults already in attendance for this cookout, two security agents seemed more than sufficient.
Also, with five adults in attendance for this cookout—before Pinky and Butch—this comes nowhere near qualifying to be anything date-ish in nature.
Though the sundress Bea has changed into, showing off her legs and shoulders and arms and I daresay a hint of cleavage as well, which I shall have to inspect in more detail once I’m closer to her, is making me wish it were a date.
It’s also making me think I should’ve brought all three of my security agents.
One more to help me remember we’re not alone and keep me from blatantly ogling her this evening.
I give myself a mental shake.
This level of infatuation is rather unlike me.
A hint of woodsmoke and cooking meat lingers in the air—likely thanks to the grill that Bea is manning—or is it womanning?—and there are enough trees around the house to provide a break from the sun’s heat.
She’s applying sauce to the meat she’s tending, but she keeps sliding looks my way.
Looks accompanied by small private smiles that make me rather glad smiling is my default.
I’d look like a lovestruck fool as I smile back at her otherwise.
Not that I’m lovestruck.
Smitten, possibly. Horny, most definitely. But never lovestruck.
“May I be of assistance?” I ask her.
