Page 6 of Treat

Brynn eyed Tilly, currently doing the doggie equivalent of a swoon while Jude rubbed her ears. “No. She might fart, though, and then you’ll wish you were dead.”

“This sweet girl?” He bent to give Tilly an affectionate nuzzle that sent her into a tail-wagging frenzy of joy. “I don’t believe it.”

Brynn, who in the week and a half she’d been dog-sitting had been on the receiving end of more gas than Exxon, snorted.

Jude grinned, flashing his dimples again. “You mind if I take one of the pillows?”

“Um, no. No, of course not,” she said, and when he stood to circle the bed, tugged her t-shirt down over her knees. Then she realized it dragged the loose V-neck so low her nipples were visible and let it go.

“Do you need anything?” he asked from the foot of the bed, far enough away now to be fuzzy without her glasses, a fact which should’ve helped her lust problem but didn’t. It apparently didn’t matter that she couldn’t make out his biceps or his thighs, or see his mustache as anything but a blonde smudge on his face anymore, because she had an excellent memory that hadn’t gotten the no-lusting-after-Jude memo, and was, to her chagrin, gleefully filling in the fuzzy blanks.

“No,” she said, concentrating on his fuzzy nose instead of his fuzzy boxer shorts. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, well. See you in two hours.”

“Right. Two hours,” she echoed, watching his fuzzy, blue-clad ass walk toward the door.

He paused, and though she knew he was looking at her, he was too far away for her to see the expression on his face. “Goodnight, Brynn.”

“’Night,” she said, then he hit the switch and plunged the room into darkness, and the door clicked shut behind him and she was alone with her impure thoughts and Tilly. Who promptly farted.

“I deserved that,” Brynn muttered and burrowed under the covers.

2

Brynn was up at six. Not because she was by nature an early riser, but because Tilly was—or at least her bladder was, and the only thing worse than getting up so early was the prospect of waking up in a puddle of dog pee.

And having to replace Jude’s five-thousand-dollar mattress would’ve sucked, too.

So she hauled Tilly off the bed, stumbled into the bathroom to take care of her own pressing needs, then put on her glasses, dragged on her leggings, and with Tilly running in circles ahead of her, headed for the front door.

Twenty minutes later she keyed in the door code, yawning so hard she screwed it up and had to key it in again. With the door open, Tilly—freed from the hated leash—ran ahead to the kitchen to dance impatiently in front of her food bowl. Moving slower, Brynn kicked off her flip-flops and started to follow, and then the faint sound of running water reached her ears. She frowned at the kitchen faucet, which was off, then realized she was hearing the shower in Jude’s bathroom. He was taking a shower, she thought, and tried unsuccessfully not to picture it.

Then Tilly gave her sharp, impatient, why-haven’t-you-fed-me-yet bark.

“I’m in hell,” Brynn muttered, and shoving her glasses up her nose and the image out a wet and naked Jude of her mind, went to attend to her highness.

She filled the water bowl and got out a pouch of the insanely expensive fresh, raw ingredient dog food from the fridge while Tilly spun in circles, scattering drool. By the time she’d cut open the pouch, dumped its contents into a bowl, and used a fork to break it up into bite-sized chunks, Tilly was dancing at her feet, jumping as high as her stumpy, five-inch legs would allow.

“All right, all right,” Brynn said, laughing. Tilly’s dads, Owen and Mark, called it her ‘dinner dance’, and it had quickly become Brynn’s favorite part of the day. Holding the food dish to her chest, she waited for the rest. As if on cue, the basset hound mix tipped back her head and let out a trilling howl.

Brynn set the dish down and Tilly dove in, her ears dragging through the puddle of water and drool on the floor.

“You’re so ridiculous,” Brynn said with affection and went to get the paper towels.

When the water and the drool and the chunks of dog food were cleaned up, and Tilly had submitted with the graciousness of royalty to the removal of the bits clinging to her ears and chin, she waddled off to sprawl in a patch of sunlight on the floor and Brynn turned to the coffee maker.

She brewed a double pot, figuring Jude hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had. She’d probably feel better if she’d just stayed up reading all night instead of trying to sleep in between his little concussion exams.

Mostly because when she finally did sleep, she had dreams where he’d say things like “Who’s the president of my penis?” and she’d say “I am,” and then she’d wake up to him asking her who’d won the fucking Stanley Cup again.

The pot was almost full when the bedroom door opened and Jude walked out.

He wore nothing but a pair of dark blue shorts, knee length and loose, with a drawstring waist and a faded logo on the right leg. His hair was wet from the shower, his eyes heavy, and when he smiled at her, soft and sleepy, his mouth looked like pure sin under his damp mustache. “Morning.”

She cleared her throat and tried to act like she didn’t want to tackle him to the floor and sit on his face. “Morning. Want some coffee?”

He yawned, reaching up with one hand to scratch his bare chest. “I can get it,” he said and shuffled into the kitchen.”

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