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Sunday, March 17, 2013
Sneak Peek Sunday - Home to Stay
Home to Stay - a M/F Contemporary Romance
And does that cover get the juices flowing??
“Hey, Dog.” At his own front door, a soft, curly-haired critter clickety-clacked its way across the hardwood floor to greet him. The dog he’d sort of adopted a few weeks ago. Or had the mutt adopted him? Either way, he guessed he was stuck. The stupid dog with no collar or tags had shown up at his back porch one night. The pathetic thing had looked hungry, so he’d fed him leftover hamburger and put out a dish of water. The dog was gone the next morning but, to Hank’s chagrin, the hairy creature was waiting when he’d gotten home from work the next night. So he’d fed him again, even as he was afraid that he was getting into something he didn’t want.
One night the mutt’s whimpering during a thunder and lightning storm drove him nuts. He let the shivering, cowering dog inside the house. The simple action of rubbing the poor thing’s dirty, tan fur dry with an old towel had resurrected the frustrated, protective feelings that he’d first become aware of when he’d served in the Marines after high school. Then dog and man had weathered out the storm together in the darkened living room with candles and flashlights handy since storms with blackouts were common in Iowa.
He’d named the shepherd-terrier mix Dog because he didn’t want to think too hard about a real name. Besides he had no intention of letting the beast get too attached. A fine animal like Dog undoubtedly belonged to someone who would want him back.
But tonight, though he didn’t want to admit it, he was almost happy to see the panting, playful guy. Inside the back door, he’d actually chuckled when Dog leapt up as high as his shoulders. Then he shuffled into the kitchen with Dog brushing and bumping his legs along the way. The little guy wouldn’t be satisfied until he got the big belly scratching he yearned for ‑‑ almost more than food, it sometimes seemed. “Don’t get used to this, buddy,” he warned even as he vigorously stroked and kneaded.
Finally, replenishing the water dish and settling Dog with his food, he stowed his gun on the top shelf of a cabinet and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He changed out of his uniform and into cut-off gray sweats and a black T-shirt. Then he headed barefoot back to the living room to his favorite chair, an oversized wingchair with a throw pillow that fit just right into the small of his back. Stretching out his long legs, his hands dangling over the arms of the chair, he welcomed the dark. He didn’t need the light to feed Dog or do anything else, for that matter. He guessed he knew his way around his little house well enough after almost three years.