Chapter 14
Rory
Morgan’s face lights up the moment he catches sight of me back in his bar. “Miss me already?” he says, leaning his forearms on the bar. He is fucking delighted to see me and he doesn’t even know the best—or worst—part of it yet.
I toss my backpack on the bar with a thunk. “Grandma kicked me out.”
He does a really bad job of hiding his laughter with a cough and I glare at him.
“Shut up. And please tell me you have a guest bed.”
“Well . . .” He scratches his cheek and turns, stalling by grabbing my favorite beer from the cooler.
“Morgan.”
“I only have one bed. And it’s a twin.”
His lip twitches. The fucker is lying.
“And I don’t own pajamas.”
“You’re a bad liar,” I tell him.
“And the heat is off. We’ll have to snuggle for warmth. I bet you’re a great cuddler.”
“I do not cuddle,” I growl. I reach over the bar to smack his shoulder.
Morgan evades me, laughing, and someone else down the bar calls to him for a refill. I swipe my beer off the counter and stalk over to a booth. I read until the bar closes, and then I follow his truck home, wondering what I’m getting myself into.
He lives on one of the streets off Main, in a rustic-looking one-story house with a driveway that runs through the property to a setback garage and a fenced-in backyard.
The porch lights are on, but there are no streetlights in this part of town, so most of the house is shrouded in shadows.
Morgan drives all the way back and stops in front of the garage, so I park my bike right behind him on the driveway and shut it off.
When I pull my helmet off, I hear barking.
Morgan slams his truck door. “Shit, I should have asked. You aren’t allergic to dogs? Or afraid of them?”
“No.” I eye the house. The barking is loud.
“Good. Okay, come on in.”
We enter the backyard first, which triggers a motion sensor light to come on, through the chain-link gate and up to the back porch. “Hang on,” he tells me. “I’m going to let her out. Normally when I get home she’s sleeping, but your bike must’ve woken her up and she’s all hyper now.”
He opens the door and a dog rockets out, smashing into the side of the deck and rebounding to take the stairs in one giant leap and sprint toward me.
“That must’ve hurt,” I say.
“You’d think so, but she does it all the time. Broke the damn thing once.”
The dog does a lap, then runs between the two of us, bouncing and cavorting with her tail wagging all over the place. In the harsh floodlight, I can see that she’s a golden retriever.
“Rory, meet Princess. Princess, meet Rory.”
I stare at Morgan. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Your dog’s name is Princess?”
Morgan kneels down and starts talking to his dog, who couldn’t stand still if her life depended on it.
“That’s because she is a princess. Who’s my good girl, who’s a princess, who’s the best dog ever?
” He’s regressed to baby talking to his dog, but then he looks up at me and says in a normal voice, “Her full name is Princess Buttercup Law, Collector of Tennis Balls and Defender of Pine Lane.”
Of course it is.
The dog has calmed down enough to lean against Morgan for butt scratches, momentarily forgetting about me, until she remembers and bounds over again. This time she sniffs circles around me.
“Hi.”
She keeps sniffing, finding something particularly interesting on my right boot heel.
I look up at Morgan, who tilts his head at me. “Have you never had a dog?”
“No. No pets except for Bartholomeow, and definitely no dogs.”
“Sad,” he remarks. “Dogs are the best. Okay, girl, let’s go inside.”
We step through the back door into a tiled room with a rowing machine and a TV. Morgan leads me into the next room, which is a kitchen-living-room combo that stretches all the way to the front door. There’s a small kitchen table in the middle and a tiny alcove to the right.
“Okay, give me a minute to, uh, clean up the guest bedroom.” He grins at me before disappearing into that alcove.
I poke my head into it—there’s just enough room for three doors: the middle one is half open and reveals a bathroom counter, the left one is closed, and the right one is the one Morgan’s in.
Okay, so he does have a guest room. Presumably with a bed.
Why am I disappointed?
Drawers slam and there are thumps that sound an awful lot like cardboard boxes being moved around.
Princess trots after him, tail wagging to see what all the fuss is about, leaving me alone.
I drop my bag on the floor and look around.
The big walls have those large frames designed for multiple regular-sized photos in them, and I lean in to take a closer look.
There are older pictures that show a young Morgan—no baby or kid photos, but as a teenager.
I recognize some of his friends in them.
I spot a few pictures set in the bar and a lot of pictures with snow—a chairlift from behind with three bundled-up people; a tailgate party with Morgan, three guys, and two girls; and a picture of the view from the top of a mountain looking down over the snowy landscape of the town.
There’s a framed newspaper clipping too.
SKIING TEENS FIND BURIED SKIER
The story’s about a skier who slid off one of the runs the day after a big snowstorm. He got stuck in the powder between the trees and the “local high school boys” found him and dug him out before he suffocated.
“That was wild,” Morgan says, coming to stand beside me. “You ever ski?”
“Nope. This calls you a hometown hero.”
Morgan shrugs. “Eh. I found the guy. Hunter had the shovel. Your room is ready.”
I turn to follow him into the bedroom. Boxes are piled up on one side, but the full-sized bed is clear and is made up with sheets and a comforter. It’s not a big room, but it’s just me and a backpack.
And a dog, apparently, who jumps up on the bed.
“Hey, Princess, get down from there.”
She obeys, only to put her chin on the edge of the bed and wag her tail while staring up at us.
“Okay, that’s my room across the hall”—he points to the left door—“and this is the bathroom.” He pushes the middle door open and shows me the sink, toilet, and shower.
I walk in and look around.
Morgan leans on the doorframe, one elbow resting on the wood above his head. His bicep is obscene. “Help yourself to anything you need. Towels in there, shampoo’s in the shower. I, uh, don’t get up early in the morning since I work late, so help yourself to anything in the kitchen too.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for letting me stay.”
“You’re welcome. Shout when you’re done in the bathroom and I’ll take my turn.” He taps the top of the doorframe and leaves me to it.
I don’t have much with me, since I keep essentials at Grandma’s house and she didn’t bother to pack them up for me. I find a new toothbrush under the sink and use Morgan’s toothpaste. Then I shower, and I haven’t showered in a man’s bathroom in a long time. It’s so . . . utilitarian.
I wrap a towel around my body and one around my hair and then I poke around. Curious about the man I’m “engaged” to.
No medications, no sign of a woman. He’s a hometown hero with a fucking golden retriever named Princess.
I exit the bathroom and startle when I spot Morgan sitting on the couch. Princess is wedged into the cushion next to him, belly-up while he strokes her fur. Her lips have succumbed to gravity and she gives me a toothy grin.
The overhead lights are off and there’s just the lamp on next to Morgan. The wood floor gleams and the couch looks soft and inviting.
Morgan’s smile is as slow as molasses while he looks me over. “Feeling better?”
Am I? I was cranky earlier, pissed at Grandma and annoyed at the locals. Now, after a hot shower and just the right amount of affection from a man and a dog, I feel a lot better.
Tired though.
I nod. “Thanks again.”
“Of course. Good night, my queen.”