“You,” the woman answered simply.
Tate blinked. “Me?”
“Whatever your problem is.”
“My problem,” he said, speaking carefully, “is a dog who keeps showing up and interrupting what I’m trying to get done.”
“Maybe you should put him to work.”
“What?”
She smiled, and it matched her tone. Quinn Foxworth, Tate thought, was a lucky guy.
“He knows a hammer from a screwdriver from a wrench, and he’s happy to fetch and carry.”
He blinked. Again. “You’re saying if I tell him to bring me a hammer out of a pile of tools—”
“He will. Helpful if you need to nail something you can’t let go of.” As if she hadn’t just boggled him she went on in that same jovial tone. “So where is the lad?”
“In the kitchen. Staring at a pot. An empty pot,” he added, to explain how odd it was.
“Hmm” was all she said.
“He must hear you out here,” Tate said, truly puzzled now. “Why hasn’t he come out?”
“Told you. Dog on a mission.”
“So you said. But I don’t have a problem. At least, not one he can fix.”
She laughed. “You might be surprised. But I’ll go get him, if it’s all right?”
Smothering a sigh, he nodded. When she hesitated and he realized she didn’t know, he pointed toward the kitchen and remembered what he’d wanted to ask in the first place.
“Has he been here before?” he asked as he followed her into the room where the dog’s tail wagged happily, but he didn’t move from his selected spot. “Before the explosion, I mean.”
“Not that I know of.”
“So he didn’t...know my grandfather?”
“I don’t think so,” Hayley said, an understanding look dawning on her face. “Nope, it’s all you.”
Tate wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or the knowledge that his theory that the dog kept showing up here because he was looking for Gramps had just been shot down.
“So, that’s the pot?” she asked, looking at it where it sat innocently on the counter.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t fit with the rest,” she said with a glance at the overhead rack his grandmother had so loved, but that he was seriously considering taking out now that he’d banged his head on the low-flying skillet once too often.
“No.” She just looked at him, waiting. You and your dog, he thought, his mouth quirking. Finally he gave in. “It belongs next door.”
“Ah. Your charming neighbor.”
When she wasn’t sniping at him for his bad manners, Tate thought. Rightfully so, his conscience nudged.
“He probably wants you to take it back to her, then.”
For a third time Tate blinked, this time long and slow, and with a shake of his head.
“Dog,” he said—unnecessarily, he thought.
“Yes,” Hayley agreed. “And I would have thought you, of all people, would realize some dogs are different than your run-of-the-mill house pet.”
She had him there. And, judging by her expression, she knew it.
He was saved from trying to answer by yet another knock on the door. He stifled a grimace.
“Grand Central Station here this morning, huh?” Hayley said with a grin.
“Seems like,” he muttered, and wasn’t really surprised when he opened the door and found his charming neighbor on the porch.
“Sorry to bother you,” she began.
“That ship already sailed this morning,” he said, gesturing at the dog, who had suddenly abandoned his obsession and had come trotting happily out to greet the clearly very welcome Lacy Steele. As if the dog lived here, and not him, Tate thought wryly.
“Well, hello there, furry one,” Lacy said, reaching to pet the dog then scratch behind his ears. Cutter sighed happily and leaned in as Lacy looked up and smiled at Tate. He was still taken aback at the jolt that had given him when she looked past him and said, “And you, too,” telling him Hayley had followed her dog out of the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Hayley said. “I’m here to retrieve my dog. Again. Before Tate’s patience runs out.”
“Might be a bit late on that,” Lacy said, without looking at him.
“I got that feeling,” Hayley agreed.
“He’ll get over it. Nobody could stay mad at this sweetie.”
“Unless they’re really mad at something else.”
“Standing right here,” Tate pointed out, feeling a bit aggrieved.
“So you are,” Lacy said. She sounded as cheerful as Hayley had. None of them—including the dog—had any qualms about intruding or interrupting, obviously. “And speaking of retrieving, I need to retrieve my stockpot, if you’re done with it.”
“Stockpot,” he repeated, the memory coming back now.
“The pot the stew was in?” she explained.
“I know, I just couldn’t remember what it was called. I don’t cook much.”
“Well, I do, and I need it for spaghetti sauce tonight. My tomatoes aren’t ready yet so I had to buy some, but I’ve got some other veggies I need to use up.”
“That garden looks like you’d have enough to feed my entire squad.”
“Invite ’em over,” she said.
She was kidding, of course, but as he looked at her serene expression he had the oddest feeling that if he did just that, she would welcome them. And deal with the influx graciously and feed them well.
“I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Hayley glanced at her dog, who had inexplicably given up his fascination with the stockpot and was at the front door, clearly ready to leave, and added, “Since it appears his work here is done for the moment.”
Tate’s brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? But before he could ask, both woman and dog were out the door and headed home at a steady run.
“Seems you’re making friends in the neighborhood whether you like it or not,” Lacy said when they’d gone out of sight.
That stung, although not as much as her manners comment. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”
“Just saying you don’t go out of your way to be welcoming.”
“Doesn’t seem like I have to, with everybody showing up, anyway.” What was it about this woman that had him snapping like this? Maybe he wasn’t an easy charmer like Cav, but he’d never turned into a grouch at the sight of a beautiful woman. And Lacy Steele was certainly that, as his body kept reminding him. He sucked in a breath, willing himself to speak evenly. “Look, I only meant I thought it would be...slower here. Small-town slow. And I thought I’d left stuff like middle-of-the-night explosions behind for good.”
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Of course, you’re right. And you have every right.”
Her instant contriteness, so obviously sincere, made him feel even worse. As if he’d somehow traded on his service to get out of a situation his own rusty social skills