of the entry. Nearly every imaginable breed had a place. Scottish deerhounds; Great Danes; Irish wolfhounds; innumerable terriers of all sizes; dachshunds; Labs, black and golden; and far too many mongrels to count. Dogs of all ages who, if viewed by someone with their heart in the right place and a sharp sense of observance, appeared to have the same eyes.
Even more startling, a small brass plate fixed to the bottom of each picture frame revealed that every dog bore the name Jock.
Only
Jock
was missing.
And Graeme dreaded the day his good friend would join the others.
Though he knew such a parting wouldn’t last long.
He also knew he didn’t want Kendra Chase stepping into the entry hall and chancing to study the photographs. If—his gut twisted—she hadn’t already done so.
She struck him as the sort who’d notice the dogs’ eyes.
And once she did…
Frowning, Graeme stepped into his lounge andsnatched her car keys off the lamp table by the door. Jock lay sprawled on his plaid before the hearth fire, feigning innocence as he did so well.
It was a talent he’d perfected.
He’d certainly had enough time to do so.
And thinking about
time
and its passing was one very good reason for Graeme to stop thinking about kissing the delectable American tourist waiting on his door stoop.
He also flashed an irritated glance at his dog. “Your false innocence doesn’t fool me.” He kept his voice low, not wanting Kendra to hear.
He knew Jock did because the dog’s ear twitched.
“I dinnae need a woman in my life. And”—he paused before the lounge door—“your tricks to push thon lassie beneath my nose won’t serve anything. She’ll be gone in a few days, away to her America, where she belongs.”
On his plaid before the hearth fire, Jock cracked one eye.
It was a look Graeme knew well.
And every time he’d seen it, Jock had won.
“No’ this time, laddie.” Graeme tightened his grip on the car keys and strode back down the entry hall, eager to place the keys in Kendra’s hand.
The sooner she left here, the better.
Meantime, he would look out for her from afar.
But something told him it would be a very long time before he could forget Kendra Chase.
Worst of all, he didn’t want to forget her.
Chapter 3
“Ah, there’s yourself, lassie.”
Iain Garry, owner and proprietor of the Laughing Gull Inn, smiled as he raised the flap of the bar and came over to Kendra the instant he spotted her on the threshold of the hotel’s cozy pub restaurant.
“I’ve saved the best table for you.” A portly man of middle years, his rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes marked him as an easygoing, amiable soul. “Though”—he beamed at her, his bald pate shining in the lamplight—“as you can see, the locals prefer crowding the bar to sitting at tables. Yours is in thon corner, by the far window.”
Kendra looked to where he indicated, more than pleased. “That’ll suit me fine.”
Truth was, the entire pub restaurant delighted her. People did stand three deep at the long, polished bar. But even with such a crowd, she caught the gleam of old-fashioned brass ale pumps and the glint of sparklingglasses and bottles arrayed on wall shelves. Better yet—to her love of all things old—the stone-flagged floor and low oak-beamed ceiling lent an air of warmth and cheer that made her heart beat faster. As did the whitewashed walls, cluttered as they were with all manner of sea memorabilia, including a large, old-timey photograph of herring fishers. A caption scrawled in white ink across the bottom of the picture declared, with implied pride, that the men had been a WILD ROUGH LOT.
“They were that, aye.” Iain followed her gaze as he steered her past the photo, dated to the late 1800s. “Men who make a living of the sea have to be tough, even nowadays. Though”—he led her around a half barrel filled with smooth, silvered driftwood—“their numbers decline each year. More the
Even more startling, a small brass plate fixed to the bottom of each picture frame revealed that every dog bore the name Jock.
Only
Jock
was missing.
And Graeme dreaded the day his good friend would join the others.
Though he knew such a parting wouldn’t last long.
He also knew he didn’t want Kendra Chase stepping into the entry hall and chancing to study the photographs. If—his gut twisted—she hadn’t already done so.
She struck him as the sort who’d notice the dogs’ eyes.
And once she did…
Frowning, Graeme stepped into his lounge andsnatched her car keys off the lamp table by the door. Jock lay sprawled on his plaid before the hearth fire, feigning innocence as he did so well.
It was a talent he’d perfected.
He’d certainly had enough time to do so.
And thinking about
time
and its passing was one very good reason for Graeme to stop thinking about kissing the delectable American tourist waiting on his door stoop.
He also flashed an irritated glance at his dog. “Your false innocence doesn’t fool me.” He kept his voice low, not wanting Kendra to hear.
He knew Jock did because the dog’s ear twitched.
“I dinnae need a woman in my life. And”—he paused before the lounge door—“your tricks to push thon lassie beneath my nose won’t serve anything. She’ll be gone in a few days, away to her America, where she belongs.”
On his plaid before the hearth fire, Jock cracked one eye.
It was a look Graeme knew well.
And every time he’d seen it, Jock had won.
“No’ this time, laddie.” Graeme tightened his grip on the car keys and strode back down the entry hall, eager to place the keys in Kendra’s hand.
The sooner she left here, the better.
Meantime, he would look out for her from afar.
But something told him it would be a very long time before he could forget Kendra Chase.
Worst of all, he didn’t want to forget her.
Chapter 3
“Ah, there’s yourself, lassie.”
Iain Garry, owner and proprietor of the Laughing Gull Inn, smiled as he raised the flap of the bar and came over to Kendra the instant he spotted her on the threshold of the hotel’s cozy pub restaurant.
“I’ve saved the best table for you.” A portly man of middle years, his rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes marked him as an easygoing, amiable soul. “Though”—he beamed at her, his bald pate shining in the lamplight—“as you can see, the locals prefer crowding the bar to sitting at tables. Yours is in thon corner, by the far window.”
Kendra looked to where he indicated, more than pleased. “That’ll suit me fine.”
Truth was, the entire pub restaurant delighted her. People did stand three deep at the long, polished bar. But even with such a crowd, she caught the gleam of old-fashioned brass ale pumps and the glint of sparklingglasses and bottles arrayed on wall shelves. Better yet—to her love of all things old—the stone-flagged floor and low oak-beamed ceiling lent an air of warmth and cheer that made her heart beat faster. As did the whitewashed walls, cluttered as they were with all manner of sea memorabilia, including a large, old-timey photograph of herring fishers. A caption scrawled in white ink across the bottom of the picture declared, with implied pride, that the men had been a WILD ROUGH LOT.
“They were that, aye.” Iain followed her gaze as he steered her past the photo, dated to the late 1800s. “Men who make a living of the sea have to be tough, even nowadays. Though”—he led her around a half barrel filled with smooth, silvered driftwood—“their numbers decline each year. More the
Similar Books
