Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
No wonder the man thought firewood was a priority.
On the other hand, the setup of the dog pens across the way was far more extravagant.
Big pens. Sturdy, perfectly aligned chain link fence. And from what I could tell in the dark, really nice, roomy sheds for each dog. I could see bright bits in the pens that were probably toys.
There were also three dogs, standing at attention and looking at the house—not the car with the person in it—the house where Hutch went.
They were Malinois and they were gorgeous. They looked almost like German shepherds, but they appeared to be smaller.
I kept my eyes on the three dogs even as Hutch and Hannibal came out.
Those dogs watched him every step of the way.
When Hutch and Hannibal got in, after Hannibal gave me a sniff and let me give him a pet, I asked, “How do you let them go?”
He knew what I was asking, because he answered, “With difficulty.”
“It’s rough?”
Stupid question.
“You raise a dog from a pup, you gotta have ice in your veins not to let your feelings get involved.” He rounded his truck in the wide space between house and pens and kept talking, “But I vet my clients extensively. I know the dogs are going to good people to do good work, and the contract stipulates if they’re retired from that work and they don’t intend to keep them, they have to return them to me.”
“Do any get returned?”
“None. Most cops who work K9 adopt the dog they patrol with when he or she is retired. A bond is a bond. A partnership bond like that never dies.”
I thought of Tonks and Moxie.
I’d had them just over a week and I couldn’t imagine my life without them.
He pulled out on CR 10.
“Your house is you,” I remarked.
“What’s that mean?” he asked with a bite reminiscent of Mr. Grouch.
“I mean it’s you,” I repeated saucily. “A cool-as-shit log cabin. Natural. Like an extension of the wilderness that’s all around. If there’s one thing that fits in this place that’s manmade, it’s a log cabin. And your dog pens are the bomb.”
He seemed to relax, and I didn’t know what that was about, but I didn’t like it.
“Bought it, didn’t do shit to it,” he said.
“Does it need shit done to it?”
“Not sure my oven would evenly bake a loaf of sourdough bread,” he joked.
Considering his earlier bite, I didn’t laugh.
I retorted, “Well, since you don’t eat sourdough bread, then who cares?”
“My thoughts,” he muttered.
“Can I make a guess?” I snapped.
“Not sure, considering you sound pissy, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, but go ahead.”
“Up-her-own-butt Bree thought you should put in a jacuzzi.”
For a second, there was silence.
Then the cab filled with his deep, rich laughter, something else I’d never heard, something else I liked very much, and after it, he said, “She thought I should consider some upgrades.”
“Thought? Or nagged about it? Because she’s up-her-own-ass Bree and felt entitled to walk on furs and could feel a pea if it was placed between the mattress and box springs.”
“I’m a little scared of how much you don’t like a woman you’ve never met, babe,” he teased.
“Crashing out like she did on you, Hutch, is not okay.”
“Don’t I know it,” he muttered.
“Huh,” I huffed.
He chuckled.
Not as nice as his laugh, but still nice.
“Hope that coated, fried beef cutlet isn’t sitting in your gut so you don’t have enough energy for me, May,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll keep up with you Hutch Hutchison.”
His lips lifted his mustache in the dashboard light. “Right.”
In the end, I did keep up with him.
Though just barely.
Thursday, we took another break (because, seriously, I loved every minute, but the guy was breaking me!).
And Thursday, I learned Mrs. Matthews’s “landscaping team” was her son and two grandsons.
But Thursday night, I sent Hutch a picture of the fire I built (he’d taught me Wednesday night, before we got busy on my couch).
He not only dropped a thumbs up on my picture.
He texted, Nice.
It was.
He was.
This was.
And Abigail’s advice was perfect, because that whole week proved my idea of what Hutch and I should be was perfect.
But of course, for me, that kind of thing never lasted.
EIGHTEEN
President of the Board
Mabel
Friday afternoon, I went into town to check in with Abigail (since we broke the seal on our friend thing, I told her about Hutch and my friends-with-benefits situation, and she appeared to be reconsidering her “go with your intuition” advice, but she’d see that it was working the next day when Hutch gave us our tour).
While in town, I grabbed groceries.
Specifically, food for the dinner I was making the next night for my friends, their kids (also my friends, just the kid variety)…and Hutch.
Now I was on trip two of lugging them into the cabin as my phone rang.