Hooked

boxwoods.”
    As if on cue, Mickey came bounding in with his favorite rubber chicken drooping from his mouth, and stood with his eyes gleaming and his feet spread, his best chase-me pose.
    “You, mister, are getting a bath and a haircut today,” she said, stalking him. “And this time you will not humiliate me in front of Alfredo and the rest of the staff at Chez Chien.”
    * * *
    At five-thirty, she stepped out of the shower feeling sticky and irritable. What in heaven’s name was she doing going out to dinner with a man whose very voice made her react in places she’d rather forget were part of her anatomy? Distance was her only hope this evening. Cool and friendly and always an arm’s length away. That was the plan.
    Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the steamy mirror and stiffened at the sight of her body. Cool and distant shouldn’t be too hard to manage.
    Mickey scratched at the door and she sighed, seeing in her mind’s eye the marks he was probably leaving in the mahogany. Whatever had possessed her to buy a dog that big?
    Too late for second thoughts. She was stuck with a playful monster of a canine who broke every boundary she established, and whose big warm eyes, eagerness for her, and affectionate nature melted her into puddles. Not even the memory of an indignant Alfredo covered in hair, snatching the check from her hand, could make her regret adopting Mickey.
    She opened the door with a hand extended to ward off the dog, but he was on the bed, head on his paws, miffed that she’d locked him out of the bathroom. At least she was able to dress in peace.
    Slacks. Black. White shirt with stand-up collar. Silk-and-cotton fitted jacket in a flirty modern print. She added a black belt with silver buckle and a waterfall of silver chains embedded with semiprecious beads. Casual, but stylish enough to make it through the door of a decent restaurant without raising eyebrows. She was putting finishing touches on her mascara when the doorbell rang.
    Her heart gave a lurch, and it took a minute for her to realize that part of the thudding she heard was actually Mickey hitting the floor and rocketing down the staircase to the front hall.
    She sent the beast to his crate in the utility room, then opened the door. Finn stood there in khaki slacks, a button down shirt and a navy blue sports jacket. His thick hair was freshly cut and his square chin freshly shaved. He looked like a coed’s dream. Okay, a mature coed.
    Steph took an instinctive step back as a slow, devilishly handsome smile spread over his face. Her stomach did a disconcerting flip.
    “Come in,” she said thickly, so caught up in the acrobatics in her midsection that she failed to hear the scraping of claws on marble.
    “Pretty tony neighborhood,” he said, stepping inside, just as a furry freight train came roaring out of the kitchen and down the main hall.
    “No! Mickey, no! ” The dog shot around her and pounced on Finn’s chest, knocking him back against the wall.
    Red-faced, she issued furious orders, but Mickey wasn’t going anywhere until he’d given Finn a Homeland Security-worthy sniffing.
    “Who’s this?” Finn seized the dog’s enormous paws.
    “Mickey—he’s still in training,” Steph said, swallowing the pride lodged in her throat. “Apparently goldens don’t mature at the same rate as smaller dogs. They’re sort of late bloomers.”
    Finn looked over the beast licking him and shook his head in disbelief. Then his gaze narrowed as he captured the dog’s attention, and after a brief stare-down, Mickey disengagedand plopped to the floor, tail wagging. Finn, he’d apparently decided, was more “treat” than “threat.”
    “Mickey—to your house!” Stephanie flung a finger toward the kitchen. “House!” The dog looked up at her with a catch-me glint in his eye that was nothing short of alarming. She lunged as discreetly as she could, grabbed his collar and escorted him to the kitchen. Finn followed, and by the time she’d installed Mickey in his crate and closed the door, she found him standing in the archway leading into the kitchen, looking around.
    “Pretty nice place you have, Miz Steele,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the opening, taking in the warm cherry cabinets, the thick granite and the handsome tile work. “Great kitchen. Do you use it?”
    “I do.” She paused to smooth her shirt and resettle her jacket. “I love cooking, when I have the time.”
    “And do you have time?”