Hooked

with a capital D .”
    “Love at first sight, eh?” Again that irresistible rumble put a hitch in her step and made her face heat. “Dogs can do that to you.”

Chapter Five
    Finn watched her practically climbing the car door to put distance between them on the way to the restaurant, and wondered what was making her so standoffish. She seemed downright annoyed that she’d agreed to have dinner with him. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t have teased her so openly back at the house. But hell, she was asking for it, running that roller thing all over him while flashing him glimpses down her shirt.
    Clearly, she had her guard up, and that puzzled him. What the hell did she think he was going to do—bring up old disagreements? Demand an accounting for their breakup? Jump her bones on the way to the restaurant? Not that he wasn’t up for a little bone-jumping if it was consensual and didn’t interfere with—what? Getting to know her again?
    It jolted him a minute later to realize that somewhere in the last two days, he’d decided to make that effort. What the hell was he doing? What kind of blockhead went back for second helpings of heartache?
    Yeah, well, the prospect of heartache didn’t much scare him anymore. And how crazy was that?
    She relaxed a bit as he steered the conversation back to Mickey and her training efforts, so it was probably inevitable that she would ask about his dog.
    “How is Woolly?”
    At the mention of the big lab he’d named after his favorite fishing lure, his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
    “If there’s a dog heaven, then I’m sure he’s doing just fine.” Finn tried not to allow an image of the aging black lab that had shared his house and heart to enter his mind. He failed. The graying muzzle, the loving brown eyes filled with pain…the licks of forgiveness and gratitude on Finn’s hands as the vet administered that last shot. “He died last year. Made it to thirteen. I guess that’s all I could ask of a big-hearted lug like him.”
    “Oh, Finn, I’m so sorry. I know how you loved him,” she said with a softness that made him afraid to glance at her just then. His chest contracted around his lungs, and he had to fight the sensation to draw breath. Keep it light, Hartley.
    “Yeah, well, if I ever get to heaven,” he declared with determination, “the first thing I’m going to ask God is why the hell he didn’t make dogs live as long as humans. Damn bad planning if you ask me. He could have used some of the time he spent designing retractable cat claws to figure out a better timeline.” Finn tossed a sly smile in Steph’s direction and was rewarded by an involuntary giggle. Well, at least he could still get a laugh out of her. “But since he got a lot of other things right—like feisty trout and sweet-water streams and baby girls with big bright eyes—I guess I’ll have to let him slide on the dog thing.”
    She laughed—fully—and he felt the tension between them lower.
    “So, are you in the market for a new puppy?” she asked.
    “Nah. Not at that stage yet. May never be. Woolly was one of a kind. How many dogs do you know who can open the refrigerator and bring their master a beer?”
    “Wow, I’d forgotten about that.” There was wonder in her tone.
    “He was the best, and when you’ve had the best—” Finn glanced at her and then trained his eyes back on the road “—it’s hard to settle for less.”
    * * *
    McKendrick’s was busy, but in the restaurant’s inimitable style, the staff quickly seated them at a white-draped table near the Bahama-shutters-covered windows and brought them drinks. The filtered light and warm golden surroundings cast Finn’s face in appealing bronze tones and made his eyes shine like dark amber. Refusing to stare, Steph buried her nose in her menu, and was soon enjoying McKendrick’s classic shrimp cocktail.
    It was only natural to fall into talk of Damon’s and Silk and Steele.
    “So you’re here to help with some kind of fishing school?” she asked, trying not to sound as if she had a clue what that meant.
    “Last year we started putting on fishing programs in our major markets. We help sponsor a few tournaments here and there, but the big push is really our clinics. They’re tailored for the weekend fisherman. Those are the guys I like working with…the guys who can’t wait to wade out into a stream, wet a line and soak up nature through their very pores.”
    “And Atlanta is one of your