“Settle down, Becky. I’m not saying a thing.”
Wondering what the hell was going on, Harlan exchanged glances with Savannah. She looked as puzzled as he was. But she shrugged and asked, “Is there an available couch or chair in the house here? I think all the cottages and other buildings are full.”
“I saved you and your young man a spot. We have a couch in our sitting room and I’ll bring some blankets. We had an easy chair too, but the dog chewed a hole in it and I sent it to get recovered.”
“Whatever you have is great,” Savannah said with a tremor in her voice. She studiously avoided looking at Harlan.
He stepped in before she started giggling again. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Harwood. What kind of dog do you have?”
“Charger is a golden retriever,” she said. “He’s usually better behaved but he was feeling out of sorts that day.” She sent her husband a challenging look.
“That dog is too big to sleep on the bed, which any person in their right mind knows.”
“Oh, so now I’m not in my right mind?”
“Becky, we have company. They must be tired. We’ll hash this out later.”
“You can bet your sweet bippy we will,” she muttered as he left the room. “Come along.” Throwing a glance at Savannah she said, “I’d offer you one of my nightgowns or pajamas, but they’d be way too short on you.”
Since Savannah was five foot six or seven and Mrs. Harwood looked to be half a foot shorter, Harlan didn’t doubt that.
“I can get you one of Boone’s T-shirts if you want.”
“No, thank you, but I’ll be fine. It will be morning before we know it anyway.”
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, let me know.” She led them to her rooms, which were off the back of the house, next to the kitchen. “You’ve outdone yourself this time,” she said as she left them to get blankets.
“Who was she talking to?” Savannah asked as they took off their coats. Harlan put his tux jacket on top of his overcoat.
“No idea.” Looking from Savannah to the couch, he said, “I’ll take the floor.”
“That’s not necessary. We can share the couch.”
Her idea of sharing was for him to take one end and Savannah the other. After Mrs. Harwood left them, they both sat down and he took off his shoes, socks, tie, and belt, yanked his shirttail out of his pants and figured that was about as good as he was going to get.
She’d taken off her strappy high heels and was massaging her feet. Obviously, they hurt, and just as plainly she was trying to pretend she was fine.
“Damn. Your feet must be frozen solid.”
She started to deny it but then smiled ruefully. “If only that was all. I won’t ever be able to wear these shoes again without a flashback to agonizing pain.”
“Why do women wear shoes that make them miserable?”
“Because they’re pretty and because they make our legs look good.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He watched her critically for a moment. “Give me your feet.” He patted his thigh. “Come on, put ’em up here.”
“You’re not rubbing my feet.”
“Why not?”
“Because...that’s silly.”
“Still stubborn, I see.”
She gave him a dirty look. “Fine.” She swung her feet up and he put them in his lap and started to massage them.
“Wow. They’re like popsicles. I’m surprised you can even feel them.”
