Almost as if he plans to listen to me, Archie stops and makes an abrupt turn toward the open French doors that lead into the living room. Archie spies unfamiliar territory and the obviously expensive all-white suede couch.
“Shit,” I wail. He barks twice, weaving from side to side as I try to catch him.
He enters through the doors and speeds to conquer new ground, then leaps up-up-up toward the couch. For a short guy, he can really jump.
However, desperation and this last month of daily dog-chasing have sharpened my reflexes. I dive, catch him midair, and do a roll worthy of a superhero, landing with an oomph on the couch first, Archie on top of me.
I hold the squirming, filthy dog.
“Gotcha, you little hellion.”
I swear he winks before, in slow motion—or maybe it just feels that way—he does a dramatic twist and shake of his body. Mud flies off him and toward all that pristine suede.
“Nooooooo,” I cry, blocking the path of the mud and leaping as far away from the couch as I can, landing on the floor, Archie still in my arms.
Mud bathes me from head to toe, and I glare up at the dog.
He gives a playful growl.
I growl back.
My gauzy swimsuit cover-up and the patio furniture are going to take a lot of scrubbing, but at least I’ve saved the couch next to me.
I have to get this cleaned up.Now.
The house’s owner is supposed to show up any minute, and I can’t have the place a wreck.
All this time, I thought the regular texts the owner and I were sending each other were to ensure the dog was fine. But the manprobably wanted daily proof to ensure his pet sitter hadn’t quit in despair.
“You’re in the doghouse,” I grump as I hold Archie.
He yelps and licks my nose.
“I will not be charmed,” I grind out. “You cannot get out of this by being cute.”
He wags his ample bum and tail.
I’m not sure how I feel about the owner coming to stay here. I have to admit that I’m curious about the man behind the sprawling property, especially after the flirty texts—at least on my part—that have been flying back and forth between us. Dry humor keeps slipping through his attempts to remain professional. It’s endearing. And I’ve spent more than a little time imagining what he looks like. Is he my age or older? Is he coupled up or single?
But as excited as I am to find out, living with a stranger as the hired help might be awkward. Though he has a cleaning service that comes several times a week, would he want me to iron his sheets? Cook? I’m not exactly the domestic type, and the last thing I am is subservient. So I hope he doesn’t have any expectations in that regard.
And as worried as I was about all this quiet time and wandering through the echoey mansion, it’s been surprisingly enjoyable to be alone with only a few social obligations beyond doggy playdates several times a week. I don’t have my old friends watching me worriedly as I try to recover from the recent blows I took to my self-esteem.
I love people. I’m good at them. But I don’t have the energy to pretend that everything is fabulous right now. Emma must have sensed that. My brother’s personal assistant, who has become a friend over the years, is a goddess at anticipating people’s needs. Needs that I didn’t even realize I had.
Unfortunately, keeping this position is looking less and less likely unless I can get Archie and the place cleaned up before the owner arrives.
Archie cocks his head and perks his ears, listening, and stares at the closed front door that’s just beyond the living room and foyer.
“What is it, boy?” I ask. “Oh my God, stop staring at nothing. Because if there are ghosts here, and I very much believe there are, I don’t need to know about them. So keep your doggy sixth sense to yourself. Thank you very much.”
The other night, he spent an entire hour staring at one dark corner of the den while I was trying to figure out how the remote control worked for the large-screen television.
The dog, sensing my distraction and his chance, wriggles out of my hold.
“Fuck.”
He takes off at a run toward the foyer and all that clean black-and-white marble tile. I’ve almost caught up to him when the front door flies open. I try to skid to a halt, but Archie, as if anticipating the moment perfectly, launches toward the shadow of a tall man who appears backlit in the doorway.
