“No. Travel too much. But I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“What kind?”
Any kind. “I’ve always thought pugs were cool. Or one of those French bulldogs. Basically anything with a smushed face. They look like they’ve been through some shit, you know?”
She laughs again, a warm, musical sound that somehow makes the storm outside feel even further away. “I can see it. You and a little drooling bulldog snoring on the couch together.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I tease. “That’s retirement goals.”
She hugs her knees to her chest, still grinning. “You’d be a good dog dad.”
That takes me off guard. “Ya think?”
“For sure,” she replies. “You’ve got golden retriever–protector vibe. Like you’d spoil a dog rotten but pretend you’re tough about it.”
“What about you? Dog or cat person?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Dog, for sure. Cats freak me out.”
Fair enough.
She sighs, this sweet, faraway look in her eyes. “Someday I want one of those big goofy golden retrievers that runs for a toy every time I open the door and sheds hair on everything I own. Or a French bulldog.”
“Sounds messy,” I say, teasing.
She smiles. “That’s kind of the point.”
And damn if my brain doesn’t go full cheeseball right then—picturing us tripping over two mismatched dogs with wagging tails that knock shit over and have sad little underbites, instead of a big, beefy dog that could pull a wagon.
I see her shouting at them both in that bossy way she does, pretending like I’m in charge, while laughing our asses off in a place that feels like home.
Where the hell did that thought come from? How could I be daydreaming about a life with her?
Barf, dude. Get a grip.
But the picture won’t leave my head: Annabelle rolling her eyes while tossing a slobbery tennis ball across the living room, me pretending I’m the boss but secretly giving those dumb dogs belly rubs, the two of us living in a place that feels warm and safe and stupidly perfect.
It’s insane.I barely know her.
Chapter 9
Annabelle
The storm is not letting up.
The candles? Have burned down to nubs.
I yawn, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m exhausted. Warm—maybe even a little content—but so, so tired. The fire is a welcome, cozy glow; the couch is comfy, too, and all the adrenaline from earlier this evening has melted away, leaving me heavy and drowsy.
Still, there’s a weird guilt nagging at me.Would I be abandoning Maverick to the storm if I went to sleep first?
He notices my heavy lids, his gaze catching mine, light flickering across his eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
Wehaven’tdone much of anything, unless you count swimming and splashing around in the water.
“I will.” I hesitate. “But, um. The couch is my bed ... and we’re both camped out on it.”
So yeah.
