Read Online Uncommon Pleasure by Anne Calhoun - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Calhoun
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on. “See you around, Lauren.”
Chapter Seven
Lauren laced up her running shoes with quick jerks, scrambled to her feet, grabbed a plastic bag full of diced hot dog, and hauled the door open. To her utter shock Ty’s truck stood in the driveway. He was halfway around the hood, his keys in his hand, when she stepped onto the front porch.
“Ty,” she said. “Did you text?” When he paused, clearly shifting gears, she looked at his feet. He wore jeans, a polo, good boots with thick lug soles. Good for walking, and she bet he’d know how to turn a neighborhood upside down. “Never mind. Gretchen ran away again. Help me look for her? Please?”
It was his turn to blink. “Again?”
“If I leave her loose in the backyard she digs her way under the fence. If I attach her collar to her chain, she sits on the deck and ignores me, when she’s not looking at me with her big, sad brown eyes. I try to watch her, but if I’m weeding in the garden, sometimes I get lost in what I’m doing, and she gets away.”
He looked like he was considering wisecracks about her uselesslittle escape artist dog, but all he said was, “It’s a nice night for a walk.”
She stood at the end of her driveway and looked around as if seeing the scenery for the first time. It was a beautiful clear fall night, the breeze not cold or strong enough to chill her bare arms. Crickets chirped, and leaves rustled in the trees. At the back of her mind she knew this wasn’t why he’d come to see her, but concern for Gretchen trumped everything else.
“Getting dark,” he said, and opened the toolbox on his truck and pulled out a big, heavy flashlight.
“I searched the western end of the neighborhood already. Gretchen,” she called as she set off down the sidewalk. “Gretchen, come!”
“Does that work?” Ty asked, clearly amused. “Or is it the hot dogs that get her back?”
“She follows commands when she feels like it, and I’m not above bribery. I need to manage her weight, but hot dogs work better than carrots. I tried those the last time she got out of the yard, and got nothing. Mrs. Lacross two streets over found her under her bush. I think it was a hydrangea. Or was it forsythia? I can’t remember. Anyway, she got her out from under the bush with two hot dogs. I know a better tactic when I see one, so I adapted. I just have to find her and coax her out.”
“And this happens how frequently?”
“She’s following her instincts,” she said defensively. “Dachshunds were bred in Germany in the 1600s to go after small game—rabbits, foxes, rats—and they’d follow animals into burrows and then fight them to the death, including badgers.
Dachs
is German for
badger
.”
“No kidding,” he said.
She smiled at the new respect in his voice. Trust a man to find a fight to the death in an enclosed space admirable. “No kidding,”she said. “They’ve been turned into lapdogs, but their instinct is to dig and roam. She’s just being who she is. I can’t blame her for that.”
“You go to a lot of work for one little dog.”
They stood by Mr. Minnillo’s corner lot. Rosebushes lined the terraced slate slabs leading to his front door, and peonies bowed along the picket fence enclosing the yard. She’d found Gretchen under the peonies a few weeks ago, but not tonight. Lauren let the white, scented blooms droop, straightened, and looked at him. “Did you have pets growing up?”
“Not to speak of,” he said. “We had farm dogs and barn cats. But there was always a dog to take fishing or a litter of kittens to tempt a girl into the hayloft.”
His voice got lower, slower, the drawl more pronounced when he had that one thing on his mind, and despite her worry, the image of a younger Ty without the dark shadows in his eyes, exploring the edges of his sexuality in a hayloft, sent dusty, summer-hot lust flickering through her. She swallowed, looked away from the answering heat in his heavy-lidded eyes. “We didn’t
Chapter Seven
Lauren laced up her running shoes with quick jerks, scrambled to her feet, grabbed a plastic bag full of diced hot dog, and hauled the door open. To her utter shock Ty’s truck stood in the driveway. He was halfway around the hood, his keys in his hand, when she stepped onto the front porch.
“Ty,” she said. “Did you text?” When he paused, clearly shifting gears, she looked at his feet. He wore jeans, a polo, good boots with thick lug soles. Good for walking, and she bet he’d know how to turn a neighborhood upside down. “Never mind. Gretchen ran away again. Help me look for her? Please?”
It was his turn to blink. “Again?”
“If I leave her loose in the backyard she digs her way under the fence. If I attach her collar to her chain, she sits on the deck and ignores me, when she’s not looking at me with her big, sad brown eyes. I try to watch her, but if I’m weeding in the garden, sometimes I get lost in what I’m doing, and she gets away.”
He looked like he was considering wisecracks about her uselesslittle escape artist dog, but all he said was, “It’s a nice night for a walk.”
She stood at the end of her driveway and looked around as if seeing the scenery for the first time. It was a beautiful clear fall night, the breeze not cold or strong enough to chill her bare arms. Crickets chirped, and leaves rustled in the trees. At the back of her mind she knew this wasn’t why he’d come to see her, but concern for Gretchen trumped everything else.
“Getting dark,” he said, and opened the toolbox on his truck and pulled out a big, heavy flashlight.
“I searched the western end of the neighborhood already. Gretchen,” she called as she set off down the sidewalk. “Gretchen, come!”
“Does that work?” Ty asked, clearly amused. “Or is it the hot dogs that get her back?”
“She follows commands when she feels like it, and I’m not above bribery. I need to manage her weight, but hot dogs work better than carrots. I tried those the last time she got out of the yard, and got nothing. Mrs. Lacross two streets over found her under her bush. I think it was a hydrangea. Or was it forsythia? I can’t remember. Anyway, she got her out from under the bush with two hot dogs. I know a better tactic when I see one, so I adapted. I just have to find her and coax her out.”
“And this happens how frequently?”
“She’s following her instincts,” she said defensively. “Dachshunds were bred in Germany in the 1600s to go after small game—rabbits, foxes, rats—and they’d follow animals into burrows and then fight them to the death, including badgers.
Dachs
is German for
badger
.”
“No kidding,” he said.
She smiled at the new respect in his voice. Trust a man to find a fight to the death in an enclosed space admirable. “No kidding,”she said. “They’ve been turned into lapdogs, but their instinct is to dig and roam. She’s just being who she is. I can’t blame her for that.”
“You go to a lot of work for one little dog.”
They stood by Mr. Minnillo’s corner lot. Rosebushes lined the terraced slate slabs leading to his front door, and peonies bowed along the picket fence enclosing the yard. She’d found Gretchen under the peonies a few weeks ago, but not tonight. Lauren let the white, scented blooms droop, straightened, and looked at him. “Did you have pets growing up?”
“Not to speak of,” he said. “We had farm dogs and barn cats. But there was always a dog to take fishing or a litter of kittens to tempt a girl into the hayloft.”
His voice got lower, slower, the drawl more pronounced when he had that one thing on his mind, and despite her worry, the image of a younger Ty without the dark shadows in his eyes, exploring the edges of his sexuality in a hayloft, sent dusty, summer-hot lust flickering through her. She swallowed, looked away from the answering heat in his heavy-lidded eyes. “We didn’t
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