Page 17 of Lake House Killer

“I think Buddy would appreciate some gourmet kibble,” he says, genuinely contemplating the options.

“Hey, the kibble I give him is gourmet,” I say, lacking any confidence to back up my claim. All I know is that the dog pictured on the bag looks happy to be salivating in front of a bowl filled with the award-winning nuggets.

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s sawdust repackaged,” he says, landing the forty-pound bag on the rungs under the basket. “Besides, he’s been such a good sport for putting up with our crazy hours. And you know he works just as hard as we do.”

“Harder, some might argue.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m throwing in a bed for him,” he says, picking up a sherpa lined circular dog bed large enough for me to curl up in and it eats up most of the real estate of our cart.

“That’s really nice of you,” I say. “But he sleeps in bed with me at night. I hardly think that’s going to change. And besides my bed, he prefers the couch. He’s not even going to know what that thing is.”

“Are you kidding? He knows everything. The dog is practically a Rhodes Scholar.”

“I’m not shipping him to Oxford.”

“It’s tough when your own mother won’t support your scholarly dreams. But not to worry, Buddy. I’ve got your back.” He pats the overgrown pillow. “He still deserves his own space. Think of this as his fluffy little man cave. Besides, you never know, you might find three’s a crowd and want to give Buddy the boot.”

“Three’s a crowd?” I muse.

“Yeah, you know, in case I land in it one day. I may not want Buddy kicking me in the night.”

“You are not landing in my bed,” I inform him with a laugh. “And if you did, it would be me kicking you—as in kicking you out.”

His brows dip in the middle and, I’ll admit, it’s a stunning look, but I’m far from sharing a pillow with him.

“You’d let me in if we were going undercover,” he teases back. Good grief, I hope he’s teasing. “And I do mean undercover.”

“Not true,” I say without hesitation.

“You wouldn’t kiss me if we had to pose as a couple?”

“Maybe,” I say, thinking about it. “But only if it was do or die, and it would totally be one of those make-believe Hollywood kisses.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know, lips hardly touching, bodies hardly touching, and for goodness’ sake, no tongue.”

“Make-believe Hollywood kisses.” He shakes his head as he mutters. “What movies have you been watching? Because Hollywood really knows how to lay it on. There’s nothing but soft porn out there.”

“I am definitely not watching the same things you are.”

Owen picks up the pace, and before we know it, he’s meandering down the coffee aisle, pausing in front of the whole bean selection.

“Hang back,” I whisper as I speed ahead.

I walk just to the left of our suspect, under the guise of inspecting some specialty java placed strategically near him. I lean forward, pretending to read the labels, but my eyes are scanning his cart—a random assortment of high-end meats and some organic vegetables.

He eats well.

“Excuse me,” I say as my arm crosses in front of him, reaching out to grab a bag.

“Not a problem,” he says, sounding like the perfect gentleman, and I can feel him sizing me up.

“Would you look at that?” He gives a playful chuckle. Owen is tall, built like a refrigerator, baby-faced, but with reddish-brown facial scruff that matches his short hair. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I can practically see the cologne radiating off of him like fumes. “Couldn’t help but notice we seem to have picked up the same coffee,” he says with a touch of pride. “You must have excellent taste.”

I force a laugh. Coming across as friendly isn’t exactly my strong suit.

“Or maybe it’s you who has excellent taste,” I reply, keeping the conversation light while I take a quick inventory of his cart’s contents once again. Nothing out of the ordinary, or at least not yet, just a bachelor’s diet by the looks of it. But I’m sure Lydia wouldn’t protest eating any of that stuff if need be.

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