Rom-Com Collection

“Fine,” Ian said. He looked at me steadily for a minute. Man, those eyes were so … blue. Betty Boop folded her hands under her chin and sighed deeply.

“Okay,” I said, remembering that I was a professional person and this was not prom night. “Um … do you know where it is? It’s a little bit hard to find, because it’s down this little one-way street, then you have to sort of turn into a parking lot, but it doesn’t look like a parking lot, it’s more of an alley, but it leads—”

“Why don’t I just follow you?” he suggested drily.

I smiled. “That, Dr. McFarland, is a great idea.”

CHAPTER TEN

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we arrived at Noah’s Arks. Ian pulled in next to me, then got out of his car, looked at the sign and gave me a questioning look. “This is my grandfather’s place,” I explained as I fumbled for my purse. “I live with him. Come on in. You can meet him.”

Bowie greeted me with the type of joy usually reserved for parents and children separated by war, singing in joy, yipping, head butting me so that my jeans turned into a sea of fur.

“Hello, Bowie!” I said in my special dog voice. “Hello, my boy! Did you miss Mommy? You did? Do you remember Dr. Ian? You do?” Bowie demonstrated that he did indeed remember, mounting Ian’s leg, his yipping growing more soulful.

“Off, Bowie,” Ian said. “Off.” My dog took this as a sign that yes, Ian would rub his stomach for the next year or so and quite possibly give him a Quarter Pounder, so he collapsed on his back, revealing his … gladness. His tail waved furiously, swishing across the floor as clumps of his undercoat drifted on the breeze he created.

“Huskies need to be brushed at least once a day,” Ian said.

“I do brush him every day! Do you know Eva Potts?”

Ian shook his head. “She’s a knitter. She spins his fur into yarn.”

“Ah,” Ian murmured.

“I have a sweater made from my own dog. I don’t wear it, granted, because that’s a little incestuous, even for me, but still. Neat idea, I guess.” The memory of Mr. Human Hair flitted through my mind, and I suppressed a shudder. “All that shedding is the price you pay for the best dog in the world? Right, Bowie? You’re the best, aren’t you? Miss Angie’s out in the car, did you know that, Bowie? Can you smell her?” I bent to rub his exposed tummy, earning two yips and some crooning, as well as a wink from Bowie’s brown eye. I winked back. “Mommy loves you!”

“Do you always talk to him in that voice?” Ian asked, a trace of amusement in his own.

I straightened up. “Yes, I do,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “That way he knows I’m talking to him. Why? Do you speak French to Four D Angel’s Mayonnaise out there? Mandarin Chinese?”

Ian grinned.

Oh. Oh, yes … That was nice. My girl parts suddenly felt tight and … lively. One smile, and I was fluttery. But it was some smile. Ian looked a little … I don’t know … goofy when he smiled. A nice goofy. He had these unexpected laugh lines, and his cold Russian assassin looks suddenly morphed into utter likability, and he went from … I don’t know, my brain was getting mushy here, but suddenly, the image of waking up with Ian and seeing that smile … waking up naked with Ian, oh, yeah, now there was a visual I could spend some time examining, a smiling, unclothed, warm, strong, manly—”

“Callie, thank the Christ you’re home, because this fuckin’ leg just won’t fit and I’ll be goddamned before I … Who are you?”

My dear, cuddly grampy hopped into the great room, wielding a prosthesis in one hand like a club. “Noah, this is Ian McFarland,” I said. “Ian, meet my grandfather, the legendary boat builder Noah Grey.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” Ian said. Aw.

“What’s an honor?” Noah spat. “And what are you doing with my granddaughter here? You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”

“Gosh, you’re adorable, Noah,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“No, sir,” Ian answered.

“Think you can win me over with nice manners, young man?” Noah asked, ignoring me and glaring at Ian.

“No, sir,” Ian said again. He looked over at me, his eyes smiling.

“Ian’s the new vet, Noah. I’m doing some work for him,” I said, “so get your panties out of a twist and give me your leg.” He handed it over, still glaring at Ian. “Okay, Noah, where’s the sleeve?” I asked, referring to the silicone sock that helped hold the prosthetic in place.

“Fuck if I know,” he grumbled. “I knew I forgot something.”

“It’s a lot more comfortable if you use it,” I said.

“How do you know? Did you cut off your leg to test it out?”

“No, but I may cut off your other one if you don’t stop growling, Grampy dear,” I said. “Ian, come upstairs with me, or Noah will eat you alive.”

Ian followed me up the stairs. A mistake. Ladies, never have a man follow you upstairs, as there’s just no way to hide the junk in the trunk, if you will. I raced up so as to minimize Ian’s view. “My grandfather is only that irritable if he’s in pain,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

“No apology needed,” he answered.

Ian waited on the catwalk as I went into Noah’s room to find another silicone sock. Then I zipped down the hall into my own room to get my laptop and, let’s be honest, check my hair. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.

My heart was beating a little fast, and not just because I’d hurtled up the stairs. Also, my cheeks were hot. I was … hmm. A little horny. Yanking off my fur-covered jeans, I opened my crowded closet and surveyed the contents. A skirt, definitely. I had fab legs. But not too flirty, because yes, I was working. Choosing a darling little pink and green plaid A-line with fun pleats at the bottom, I pulled it on, topped it with a sleeveless green silk tank, grabbed a matching cardigan, then dug out my bottle-green suede peep-toe shoes with three-inch heels.

“I’ll be right out,” I called to Ian as I kicked some laundry under the bed. Not, of course, that Ian would come in here. But it was strange to have him there, right outside my bedroom. Thrilling, even. They say that men think of sex every ten seconds or something. Maybe Ian was having thoughts about me … naughty thoughts. Dirty thoughts. Long, hot, steamy thoughts of tumbling onto my big, comfortable bed, kissing my neck, moving lower, his hand working its way …

Hellooo? Anyone home? Michelle Obama said. Right! I was doing a freelance job. Still, I went over to my laptop and typed a quick message to Annie. Am going out to dinner with vet. Business only, but am having sex thoughts. I figured she’d be proud. Then closed the cover, stuffed the laptop into its case, dashed on a little MAC lip gloss, fluffed my hair, then went to the door and opened it.

“All set,” I said.

Ian looked up, his eyes most definitely checking out my legs. Great choice, that cute little skirt! Indeed, he was staring.

“Is that a Morelock chair?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling modestly. “I ran track in … what?”

“Your rocking chair. Do you know who made it?”

It was perhaps the first time I hadn’t been thrilled to discuss my beloved rocking chair. “Um … yes. It’s a Morelock chair.” I paused. “Good eye, Ian.”

“Can I see it?”

I blushed. He was coming into my bedroom! Betty Boop squealed and fluttered her eyelashes. To admire the furniture, the First Lady said pointedly. “Sure,” I mumbled.

He came in, not even glancing at my inviting bed. Hmmph. Well. The chair was special, and for some reason, I was glad Ian recognized that. It was, after all, my prize possession, the first thing I’d try to save in case of fire, right after Bowie and Noah (though Noah was pushing it these days).

“Where’d you find it?” he asked, not touching the chair and, bless him, not asking to sit in it.

“Actually,” I murmured, staring at the chair myself, “Mr. Morelock gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”

Ian looked at me in surprise. “You knew him?”

“I only met him once, but Noah knew him,” I said. “In fact, this is the last chair he ever made.”