Summer at Seaside Cove (11 page)

“First of all, Cupcake is sporting
chicken
breath, not tuna. And secondly, if you want me to tell you you're a pest to your face, fine. You're a pest. Happy?”

“Not really. I liked it much better when you told me I was hot.”

Another shade of red stained her cheeks. Oh, yeah, life was good. Whatever she was about to say—and based on the look she skewered him with, it promised to be pretty scathing—was cut off when she suddenly looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. Oh, yeah, like he was going to fall for the old “there's something/someone right behind you” trick. The second he turned around, she'd probably shove him aside and move off the steps, taking away his great eye-level view of what appeared to be a first-class rack.

“Um, what is Godiva doing?” she asked.

“Last I checked, sleeping in her dog bed on my carport. Why?”

“It appears she woke up. And is rolling around on the patch of weeds that's supposed to be my lawn. Is she okay?”

Nick turned, and sure enough, there was Godiva, right next to the decapitated flamingo, her tongue lolling, making orgasmic sounds as she writhed around like a happy pig in a mud puddle.

“Crap. The only time she does that is when she finds something really foul smelling.” He whistled sharply. Godiva stilled, then rolled to her feet. She caught sight of Nick and ran toward him like she was shot from a cannon. She greeted him in a frenzy of tail-wagging canine joy that would lead anyone to believe she hadn't seen him in a decade.

“Holy Jesus, Godiva,” Nick said, turning his head away from the horrific stench that rose from her fur in a noxious cloud of foulness. “What in God's name did you get into?”

“Ugh, I know that stink,” Jamie said, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. “It's your dead clams.”

“I thought you threw them away,” Nick said, doing his best to avoid Godiva's rapturous attempts to rub her sides against his legs.

“I did. But according to the schedule I found in the kitchen drawer, the garbage isn't collected until tomorrow.” Giving prancing Godiva a large berth, she disappeared around the corner of the house, no doubt to check her garbage bin.

Nick looked down at Godiva. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing his index finger at the ground.

Godiva's butt hit the cement, and she looked up at him with worshipful, excited eyes that clearly said,
Don't I smell
great
? Don't you
love
it? Isn't it the best smell in the
whole wide world
? I did it just for
you
! 'Cause I
love
you!

Jamie returned, her entire face scrunched into an expression that indicated the stench on the other side of the carport wasn't any better.

“Trash can's been . . . well, trashed,” she reported. “It looks like a clam crime scene over there—dead bodies all over the place.” She looked down at Godiva and shook her head. “You think you smell absolutely fabulous, don't you, baby?”

Godiva gave a single bark and pelted Nick's jeans with her wagging tail.

Jamie raised her gaze back to Nick. “That is one stinky dog you have there.”

He made an exaggerated gagging sound. “Yeah? I hadn't noticed.”

She laughed, then planted her hands on her hips and shot Godiva a stern look. “You realize the only thing saving you is that you are massively adorable.”

Godiva licked her chops and Nick nodded. “People say that to me all the time.”

She raised her gaze and treated Nick to a look that was clearly meant to incinerate him where he stood. “I was talking to Godiva.”

“I know. Doesn't change the fact that people say that to me, too.”

“I'll bet. Just so you know, Cupcake would never do something like
that
.” She indicated the clam crime scene area with a wrinkling of her nose and a vague wave of her hand.

“Right. Listen, we had a cat when I was growing up. He brought dead crap home all the time—birds, frogs, snails. He even left a dead goldfish on the porch once. God only knows where he got it. And then there were the hairballs—yuck. So don't be casting aspersions on my smelly dog like your cat wears a halo around her head.”

To prove there was no way Miss Cat Owner was going to think that a little stink (okay, a gargantuan, steal-your-breath stink) would come between him and his dog, he reached down and gave Godiva's scruff a good rub. His eyes damn near crossed in his head from the stench, but hey, he'd proved his point—whatever the hell it was.

By the way her lips twitched, it was clear she knew the stench had about knocked him off his feet. “Now you both need a bath.”

What they needed was a decontamination tank. “You realize this is your fault,” he said, straightening and folding his arms over his chest.

Her brows shot upward. “How do you figure that?”

“You obviously didn't close the lid to your garbage can correctly.”

“And you obviously didn't tie up your dog properly.”

“I didn't tie her up at all—which has never been a problem until now—when certain people didn't close their trash cans properly.”

“Well, the dead clams wouldn't have been in there in the first place if you hadn't left them in my sink.”

Damn. She had a point.

“Which means
you're
the one who's going to have to destink
your
dog.” She sniffed twice, then shuddered. “Good luck with that.”

“We can do it—it shouldn't take more than an hour to give her a good bath.”

The look she gave him indicated he was a few slices short of a loaf. “
We?
Who is this
we
you speak of?”

He smiled. “You and me.”

“What on earth makes you think I'm going to help you bathe your dog?”

“That whole ‘nice and neighborly' thing. It's the way things are done here in the South—so I've been told. Giving a seventy-pound dog a bath is a two-man job.”

“I don't doubt it. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a man.”

Oh, he'd noticed all right. In fact, he couldn't stop noticing. Or stop thinking about what she'd look like all wet, which she'd get if she helped him. He didn't really expect her to say yes, but since he couldn't resist trying to get a rise out of her, he continued, “Hey, if you had a dog that smelled like dead clams,
I'd
help
you
. Really.”

“Yeah, right. More like you'd laugh your ass off while you hightailed it out of here.”

“See, now ‘hightailed' is a Southern expression—so you're catching on to island life. You know, island life—where neighbors help neighbors.”

“Here's another Southern expression for you—I ain't doin' that no-how.” She gave him a big, false smile and batted her eyelashes. “Bless your heart.”

Nick pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and narrowed his eyes. “I've lived here for three months—I know what ‘bless your heart' means.”

“Congratulations. I knew what it meant after living here three minutes—ya big dumbass.”

“That's exactly what it means.”

“No shit.”

He heaved a huge sigh. “Fine. Be that way.” He looked down at Godiva. “Sorry, girl. Princess here thinks you're foul and doesn't want any part of you.”

The woebegone look Godiva gave Jamie made it clear that this was the worst news she'd ever heard in her entire doggie life. Ever.

“No fair,” Jamie protested. She glared at Nick. “You play dirty.”

“I play to win,” he corrected. “Always.”

“How can you stand living with him?” she asked Godiva.

Godiva barked twice.

“That means, ‘He's the best guy on the planet.' ” Nick translated.

“Clearly she hasn't met every guy on the planet,” Jamie said in a dust-dry tone. Her gaze wandered back to Godiva, who looked like she'd just lost her best pal, then she sighed and pointed at Nick. “If I help you bathe her,
you
have to clean up the clams.”

“Deal.”

Distrust was written all over her face. “
All
the clams. Every one of them.”

“I'll bag them all up
and
correctly latch your trash bin—
and
I'll even put it out by the curb for you for tomorrow's pickup.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”

Her gaze bounced between him and Godiva—who, gotta love her, was treating Jamie to her most angelic expression. After several seconds she caved and held out her hand. “Deal.”

Their palms met and his hand engulfed hers. Her skin felt warm and smooth against his. The heat that sizzled through him from such an innocent touch surprised him. Confused him. And didn't particularly please him. The fact that her eyes widened slightly made him wonder if she felt the same spark. And if she did—what did he intend to do about it?

She withdrew her hand and his fingers involuntarily curled inward to retain the tingle her touch had left behind.

“There is one catch,” he said.

She pursed her lips. Damn, she really did have nice lips. “I should have known,” she said.

“Don't give me the evil eye. It's a good catch—something that will make the bath much easier.”

“Easier for whom? Because I could make it a lot easier on myself by abandoning this entire project.”

“Easier on all of us. I'll take Godiva to the beach first. Let her burn off some energy with a game of catch. The water will wash off some of the stink and all the running will tire her out so she'll be easier to handle—a win-win. Plus, you've never seen a dog in your entire life who loves to chase tennis balls more than she does. It's pretty entertaining. You're welcome to join us, or I'll just knock on your door when we get back.”

She looked down at Godiva, who was quivering with excitement. “He had you at the words ‘chase tennis balls,' didn't he?”

When Godiva barked, Jamie laughed. “Okay, I've seen what you can do with dead clams, so I guess I should see what you can do with a ball.”

“I'll clean up the clams, then get her leash and be right back,” Nick said.

“Okay. Do you have a special shampoo or soap you use to bathe her?”

“Just whatever's in my shower.”

“I'll look in my toiletries bag and see if I can round up something a little more sweet smelling,” she said.

“Are you insinuating I stink?”

“At the moment, yes, you do.”

Since he couldn't argue with that, he whistled for Godiva and together they trotted back to Southern Comfort. Commanding Godiva to stay in the carport, Nick grabbed a couple of plastic bags from his storage closet and quickly gathered up the foul-smelling mollusks. After tossing them back into Jamie's trash can, he secured the lid, then wheeled the container to the curb. He took a couple minutes to dash into the house, wash his hands, and exchange his dirty, smelly, sweaty clothes for a pair of board shorts. He didn't bother to lock the door—anyone who wanted to steal his dirty laundry was welcome to it—and hurried down the stairs, confused as to why he was in such a rush. The prospect of hitting the beach with his clam-killing neighbor shouldn't have his heart thumping in anticipation, but there was no escaping that that's exactly what was happening.

But why? Yeah, she was cute, but so were a lot of other women. In fact, a lot of them were downright gorgeous. But it had been a long time since anyone had inspired such heat in him. And curiosity. He wanted to know more about her, but damned if he understood why. Probably it was just simply that she wasn't his usual type and she wasn't throwing herself at him. The old she's-different/hard-to-get scenario. Yeah, that had to be it. Because bottom line, she was a pest. A prissy princess—although he had to grudgingly admit that she wasn't proving to be quite as princessy as he'd originally believed. And bossy. She was definitely bossy.

Yet still his heart rapped against his ribs in a crazy, staccato rhythm.

Clearly he was an idiot.

He sure as hell wasn't looking for any entanglements—freeing himself from bad relationships had been one of his prime motivations in escaping to Seaside Cove. And getting involved with a woman who lived right next door, in a house she was renting from him, had Extremely Bad Idea written all over it.

Yet there was no denying his awareness of her. Or that sizzle when they'd touched. Which meant he had three choices—act on it, ignore it, or get the hell out of town for a couple days and hope it went away.

He knew which one his body wanted.

He knew which one was the smartest.

And he was pretty sure he knew which one he'd choose.

C
onsidering the fact that Nick Trent was a strong contender for the title of Least Charming Man She'd Ever Met, Jamie was both dumbfounded and highly irritated to find herself even momentarily charmed by him. But there was no denying that's what she felt as she stood next to him on the beach and watched him throw a tennis ball into the waves for an ecstatic Godiva.

In addition to feeling charmed, she also felt as if she were melting from the inside out—which unfortunately had little to do with the sun's hot rays and a whole lot to do with the fact that Nick looked like a freakin' Greek god in his board shorts.

How the heck did a guy who went off on regular benders manage to have perfect pecs and abs you could grate cheese on? Maybe he wasn't going off on benders at all—maybe he was modeling for those Calvin Klein underwear ads. Thank God she'd put on her sunglasses—she wouldn't want him to know she'd given him the onceover.
You've given him the onceover about forty-three times,
her suddenly number-conscious inner voice whispered.