Page 11 of Cop Daddy Next Door

“Probably.” I reached into my pocket and stroked Francie’s soft fur. “Your dog is pretty cute. Enough to deal with your company.”

“You’re the party crasher here.”

I craned my neck. “No party. Or is it a party of one?” I comically widened my eyes. “Or are you having a party yourself? Do you need to wash your hands?”

“You’re exasperating.”

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

“I do need to wash my hands, but that’s because I was working in my shop.”

“Not on your own tool?”

He shook his head, but his lips twitched.

I slid out of my flips and tucked my feet under me cross-legged. I liked this camp chair. It was bigger than mine and didn’t sag. Maybe I’d steal itandthe dog before I went home.

“So is that where the magic happens?” I nodded to the shop.

“Usually my king-sized bed.”

“King? Fancy.” I actively ignored the tingles buzzing along my skin. “I meant the ice sculpting stuff.”

“Oh.” He turned over the corn and my mouth watered. Then my eyes drifted to the chef. Not a bad view either. I did enjoy a tight bum.

“Yeah, I do that mostly in the winter. Too hot to make ice last. I do some wood sculpting the rest of the year.”

My gaze shot up from the two-handed perfect curve of his behind to his face. He was arching a brow at me, but whatever. He’d been ogling me earlier, though I was almost sure he thought I hadn’t noticed. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Like whittling? Grandpa and his wee knife?”

His nostrils flared. “Chainsaw and chisel.”

“Chainsaw? Okay, I need to see this.” I tried to get up and he waved me back down.

“Food.”

“Okay. You convinced me.” I sat back and let him bring it to me.

He held two plates full of delicious goodness. “C’mon, we can eat inside like civilized people.”

“Boring.”

“Unless you like naked hot dogs.”

“Depends on the size of the brats.”

“There’s a brat here, but it ain’t on the grill.” He left me and walked inside, the screen door slapping behind him.

Francie stuck her head out of my pocket. “Evidently, we’re going inside.”

She yipped at me and wiggled out, then she hopped out of my pocket to follow her dad. Instead of waiting for me, she nosed her way into a tiny dog flap beside the screen door.

“Okay then.”

“I only let her go in and out the dog door when I’m home,“ he called back as if he suspected I was judging his doggie parenting choices. Maybe I sort of had been.

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