“And you thought today would be different?”
His sarcasm rankled her. “I don’t like asking for help.”
“That’s silly—I’m right here.”
She bit down on her tongue. “Okay…will you please help me get down from here?”
“Sure. Give me your hand.”
Lacey sank farther into the ladder, her forehead pressing against the rung above her, her pride gone. “I’m afraid to let go.” She expected him to laugh, but he was quiet for a couple of heartbeats.
“Then I’ll come get you.”
She tensed when she felt the ladder flex under his added weight, and held her breath as he climbed up behind her. Her face flamed when she realized he was getting an up close and personal look at her backside. His big body slid behind hers like a warm wall. She felt utterly contained and safe…except for the fact that her heart was jogging in her chest like a runaway puppy.
His arm circled her waist. “You can let go,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ve got you.”
Nothing about this situation was remotely sexy…so why did his logical words and helpful touch elicit such inappropriate responses? Her breath was trapped in her lungs, her midsection pinged with awareness and long-neglected erogenous zones sang a tune.
“Relax,” he urged.
Her eyes fluttered closed. How pathetic was it that this was the closest thing to an intimate encounter she’d had in…too long? Slowly, she loosened her death grip on the sides of the ladder.
“That’s it. Let go.”
She did, and he made a little noise of approval in his throat.
“Okay, let’s go back down together.”
He waited for her to make the first move, then they descended in tandem. A moan lodged in her throat as their bodies slid against each other, hill to valley. Her skin caught fire every time and every place they touched. By the time her feet reached terra firma, she felt positively scorched from their encounter. He stepped away and turned her around for an inspection that did little to calm her pounding pulse.
“You okay?” he asked, searching her face. It gave her a good excuse to study his features, too. Mike Nichols was a striking man, with smooth, tanned skin, a strong nose and jaw, and deep blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes and brows. Very…appealing.
Even though Lacey’s knees were weak, she nodded. “Thank you.”
His unexpected smile was a jolt to her system. “You’re welcome. Want me to change the bulb?”
Her shoulders dropped in relief. “Yes, please.”
He picked up the replacement bulb and climbed the ladder as if it was a step stool, then screwed the bulb into the fixture. She took advantage of the moment to drink in the full impact of his big, athletic body. For him to perform such a simple task seemed like a waste of his abilities. It was easy to picture him in battle, or in a crisis. The man was built for action.
He descended the ladder, then scanned the ceiling. “Do you have any other bulbs that need to be replaced?”
Lacey blushed. “No. But thank you. I’m sure you didn’t drop by to do handyman work.”
“No,” he agreed amiably. “Not that I mind. But I came to make an appointment to have Sheridan groomed.”
She was surprised, since he’d made no secret he didn’t appreciate her input on his dog. “Just a haircut?” she supplied with a smile, using his words.
“And a bath if you think it’s necessary.”
She eyed his dog, still standing obediently near the door, holding the pink toy in his mouth. “Probably not. Labs don’t need to be bathed as often as other breeds—it dries out their skin.” She checked the clock on the wall. “I have time to groom him before my next appointment, if that works for you.”
“Good.” He looked at his dog. “Sheridan, come.”
The dog moved forward slowly, his head down and his eyes unfocused, dragging his leash behind him.
“Has Dr. Greenwood found anything wrong with him physically?” Lacey asked.
Mike’s mouth tightened. “Not yet.”
Realizing she was treading on touchy territory, she added, “I just want to make sure I don’t do something to inadvertently aggravate a situation. Is he on any medication?”
“Just standard tick and flea treatments.”
“Okay. Why don’t you come back in about forty-five minutes.”
He balked. “I’d rather stay and observe.”
Now it was her turn to balk. “I’m sorry—it’s my policy that the owner not be around when I’m working with their animal.”
Suspicion darkened his eyes. “Why?”
“I assure you I have nothing to hide,” she said, pushing down her irritation. “It’s just too distracting for the pet.” And in this case, too distracting for her.
“Sheridan isn’t a pet.”
“I understand, but this is the way I work.” She waited, sure he would take his dog and leave, but more sure she wasn’t going to back down…his excellent handyman services notwithstanding. “You can wait in the lobby if you like. I have better magazines than Dr. Greenwood.”
He didn’t smile, but he finally conceded with a nod. “Okay. I’ll be in the lobby if anything…if Sheridan needs me.”
Her heart pinched. The man was worried about his dog. “I’ll take good care of him and bring him out when I’m finished.”
With a look akin to a parent dropping off their child at day care for the first time, he retreated backward toward the lobby. Sheridan started to follow him, and not only did Mike not stop the dog, but he took a step toward it.
“Mike,” she said firmly.
He looked up, his eyes belligerent.
“Out.”
His mouth twitched, then he looked back to his dog. “Sheridan, stay.”
The dog whined, but obeyed. Lacey went to the animal to distract it before it could become distressed. With one last look at his dog, Mike disappeared around the corner.
Lacey led an anxious Sheridan to a grooming area and whispered, “Your master could use some training of his own.”
Chapter Five
For the better part of an hour, Mike’s ears were piqued for sounds of distress coming from the grooming area, but the only noise he heard was Lacey’s voice, unintelligible and constant, like a song playing low, over and over.
And even the quality magazines in the waiting room couldn’t keep his mind from wandering back to the citrusy scent of her soft curls, and the silky slide of her lithe body against his when he’d helped her down from the ladder. He only hoped she hadn’t been able to feel his animal reaction.
Mike squirmed in the chair and checked his watch for the hundredth time.
When they finally emerged from the grooming area, his heart bounced unexpectedly at the sight of Lacey’s sunny face. While he digested his response with a hearty dose of dismay, he zeroed in on Sheridan. The difference in the big black Lab was noticeable. The damnable pink toy was still lodged in his mouth, but he seemed more alert and his tail wagged. Mike was instantly on guard. “What did you do to him?”
The little wrinkle between her brows reappeared as she handed over the leash. “I massaged him, brushed him, checked his ears, clipped his nails—typical stuff. I couldn’t get him to drop the toy so I could check his teeth, but I assume Dr. Greenwood covered that.”
Mike nodded, then knelt to hold Sheridan’s head. His dog’s eyes looked more clear and focused. What had this woman done in such a short period of time to effect this kind of change? Then Mike sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“I use an essential oil during the massage—it’s good for his skin and coat.”
Aha. “A stimulant?”
Lacey crossed her arms. “Of course not. It’s natural and safe.”
But Mike was skeptical, and mentally kicked himself for letting Sheridan out of his sight. Lacey Lovejoy seemed like a nice person, but what did he really know about her? Barry and Dr. Greenwood vouched for her, but they were trusting people. The woman could be using dishone
st means—feeding the animals something or drugging them—to perpetuate the idea of her being a “dog whisperer.”
He straightened, supremely irritated with himself for bringing Sheridan here in the first place, all because he couldn’t get the vision of Lacey silhouetted in the sun out of his mind. “What do I owe you?” he asked abruptly.
She shook her head. “No charge. It’s the least I can do after you rescued me.”
His thoughts were momentarily derailed by her iridescent green eyes, then he recovered. “That’s not a fair trade.” He removed his wallet—he didn’t want to be indebted to her.
“I insist,” she said, holding up her hand stop-sign fashion.
The front door opened, admitting an attractive brunette and a leashed Pomeranian.
“There’s my next appointment,” Lacey said, signaling she considered the topic closed. To the woman, she said, “Hi, Julie.” Then she bent over to pet the fluffy little dog. “Hi, Daisy.”
Daisy responded with a series of sharp yaps. To his chagrin, next to him, Sheridan flinched. And when the little dog walked over for a nose-to-nose introduction, Sheridan shrank against Mike’s leg, whining.
“Sorry,” the woman said, then scooped up her toy dog. She offered Mike a flirtatious smile. “Daisy can be a little forward. You must be new in town.”
Lacey stepped up. “Julie Whelk, meet Mike Nichols.”
Mike shook the pretty woman’s hand and exchanged a greeting, but all he wanted to do was get Sheridan out of there, and out of the reach of the touchy-feely country dog groomer.
“I need to get going,” he said.
“Too bad,” Julie said, pouting.
“Okay,” Lacey chirped at the same time.
Mike urged Sheridan toward the door.
“Goodbye, Sheridan,” Lacey called.
His dog didn’t respond because his mouth was full of the ridiculous pink toy the woman had made, but his tail wagged happily…the traitor.
*
Lacey watched the pair leave, vacillating between sadness and anger. The man didn’t trust her, that much was clear. And while his concern for his dog was touching, the fact he thought she’d do anything to hurt the animal—as Southerners would say—rubbed her the wrong way.
“Yum,” Julie said, staring after Mike. “I hope he plans to stick around.”
Lacey squashed a pang of jealousy—Mike Nichols was gorgeous, and so was Julie, so of course they would notice each other. It wasn’t as if she had any claim on him just because he’d changed her lightbulb. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she offered. “He’s in town to put his search and rescue dog through a course at the training facility.”
“That dog? It’s a beautiful animal, but it seemed a little skittish to me.” She pursed her mouth. “But then so did the owner.”
“He’s not well,” Lacey explained.
“The dog, or the owner?”
Lacey bit her lip. Good question.
*
“Are you absolutely sure?” Mike asked Dr. Greenwood.
The man sighed. “Yes.” He gestured to the test results lying on the exam table. “There’s nothing physically wrong with Sheridan that I can find.”
“Maybe you should run more tests.”
Dr. Greenwood steepled his hands. “Mike, this is good news.”
Mike glanced over to where Sheridan lay curled in the corner, facing the wall…still holding that maddening pink toy. “Of course I’m glad you haven’t found anything serious, but look at him—something is wrong.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” the doctor agreed. “But it doesn’t appear to be physiological.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying my dog is crazy?”
Dr. Greenwood smiled. “Not crazy, but maybe depressed or traumatized. Animals are susceptible to the same kinds of stress triggers as humans. Search and rescue dogs are exposed to more than most.”
“Yes,” Mike admitted. “But he’s trained to endure all those situations.”
“Was he injured on his last mission?”
“No. Sheridan was in top form, like always.” Now, he noted anxiously, his dog didn’t even perk his ears when he heard his own name.
“Could be that he’s just exhausted,” Dr. Greenwood offered. “Maybe he needs to rest.”
“He’s been resting for over two months,” Mike said. “If anything, he’s been too sedentary. He’s supposed to start the refresher course at the training facility in ten days.”
The other man scratched his temple. “I can prescribe vitamins, change his diet—that might raise his energy level.”
Panic licked at Mike’s stomach—Sheridan was only four years old, below the median age for an SAR dog. He should have at least five good years of service left. He wasn’t going to give up on the best dog he’d ever handled. “What now?”
“I can refer you to a veterinary behaviorist in Atlanta.”
“What can they do for Sheridan?”
“They’re trained to diagnose medical and behavioral problems.”
“But you just said he’s fine physiologically.”
“He is.”
“So…this is a mental thing?”
Dr. Greenwood lifted his hands. “Maybe. I just don’t know.”
“You think a veterinary shrink can fix him?”
“Again, it’s hard to say.”
So, more time and expense, and maybe another dead end. The window to get Sheridan ready for the training course was closing down fast. Mike glanced at his timid dog, and wanted to bellow in frustration.
“There is another option,” Dr. Greenwood offered.
Mike looked up. “What?”
“Maybe Lacey can help.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “We’re back to that nonsense?”
“She’s not trained in canine behavior,” the other man admitted. “But she does seem to have a connection with dogs. I’ve seen her work wonders.”
Tension ballooned in Mike’s chest. As if Lacey Lovejoy hadn’t dominated his thoughts enough the past few days… The sensation of her backside spooned against his front as they climbed down the ladder was seared into his mind…as was the wag in Sheridan’s tail as they’d left her place.
He glanced back to his dog, who looked up at him with mournful eyes. He’d give just about anything to see that wag again…
Even if it meant putting Sheridan in the hands of a charlatan.
Dr. Greenwood closed the file, as if to punctuate he’d done all he could do. “You’re planning to be in Sweetness for a while anyway. What could it hurt?”
Mike set his jaw. His pride, for starters
Chapter Six
Lacey was trying to thread the needle of her sewing machine, when a knock sounded on the door to her room in the boardinghouse.
“Come in,” she called without looking up.
The door creaked open. “You might try soap,” Traci Miles offered.
Lacey lifted her head to squint at her attractive friend. Traci worked in the hair salon and had been in the original group of women who came to Sweetness to help settle the town—the woman was a font of common sense. “Soap?”
Traci walked inside and gestured. “My mother used to put a bar of soap within reach of her sewing machine to wax the end of the thread so it would go through the eye of the needle.”
“I thought you were supposed to lick the end.”
“Nope. That makes the thread expand.”
Lacey pursed her mouth. “Good to know.”
“When are you going to let me straighten your hair?”
Lacey fingered a corkscrew. “It’s hopeless, I tell you. Did you come up just to condemn my curls?”
“No.” Traci leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a really great-looking man downstairs in the front room asking for you.”
Lacey frowned. “Who is it?”
“Mike something. I was too distracted by his gigantic biceps to catch his last name.”
Her pulse blipped. “Mike Nichol
s?”
“That’s it.”
“Did he say what he wants?”
“No, but I assume it has something to do with the black Labrador retriever he has with him.”
Lacey bit down on her cheek. Considering how he’d almost accused her of doing something underhand to Sheridan when she’d groomed him, the man probably wanted to chastise her…again.
Traci wagged her eyebrows. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him…” To go jump in Timber Creek. “Tell him I’ll be right down. Thanks, Traci.”
Lacey switched off the sewing machine and stepped into the bathroom that was part of her comfortable suite in the boardinghouse that had been home since she’d arrived in Sweetness. Living here was nothing like living in her studio walk-up on the Lower West Side. There, she’d barely known her neighbors and had bars on her windows. Here, everyone not only knew each other, but each other’s family history and laundry schedule as well.
She glanced down at her casual outfit—a baggy yellow T-shirt dress and sneakers—and considered changing. Ditto for her repairing her unruly hair she’d hastily pulled into a ponytail. Then she reminded herself Mike Nichols didn’t care what she looked like. The man undoubtedly had his pick of women, and probably hadn’t given her a second glance.
Not that she’d welcome it.
Still, her heart rate bumped higher as she made her way down the stairs to the first level of the boardinghouse. As usual, the hum of voices and laughter was a backdrop to games in the rear great room, food preparation in the spacious kitchen and family-style meals in the dining room. The front great room was equally as roomy and inviting, but usually more quiet, and that’s where she found man and dog.
Mike, dressed in jeans and a polo-style shirt, did not look happy.
Handsome, but not happy.
Sheridan noticed her first and walked to the end of his leash, his tail wagging. He still held the pink toy in his mouth. She leaned over and gave his dark head a scratch to say hello and to calm her nerves.
“Hello,” Mike said, his voice wary.
“Hi,” she returned.
He shifted foot to foot. “I’m sorry to bother you on your day off.”
Baby, Hold On Page 3
