Summer at Seaside Cove by Jacquie D'Alessandro Page A

wooden banister and took the bottle, purposely resting his hand over hers. “Thanks.”
    She snatched her hand away as if he’d scorched her and he had to fight the urge to grin. He could almost hear her debating the advantages of telling him to move out of her way versus remaining where she was on the second tread, which allowed her to look down at him. Clearly she opted for the latter because she merely unscrewed the cap of her bottle and took a sip.
    He mimicked her actions, never taking his gaze from her, although given his dark lenses, she wouldn’t necessarily know that.
    She took another sip, then asked, “What’s wrong with talking to my cat? Don’t you ever talk to Godiva?”
    â€œSure. But all she hears is blah, blah, blah, Godiva, blah, blah, blah .”
    â€œCupcake would tell you that that’s because cats rule and dogs drool.”
    â€œShows what Cupcake knows. Godiva hardly ever drools.” Okay, that was a stretch—she drooled. A lot. But he wasn’t about to let some soufflé-eating cat insult his dog. That’s just what dogs did—drool. “So which meal did Cupcake choose? Personally I would have gone with the wild salmon primavera.”
    â€œShe picked the chicken and cheddar cheese soufflé.”
    Figures. “They sure make fancy stuff for cats to eat. Bet that crap costs a fortune. Lucky for me, Godiva isn’t picky.” Damn right she wasn’t. She’d eat gym socks if he put them in her bowl. Hell, she drank from the toilet every chance she got. “She’d scarf down that prissy cat food in a single gulp and not even know she was tasting tender turkey Tuscany. And by the way—you calling anyone a pest is like Cupcake accusing someone of having tuna breath.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Is that your poetic way of telling me I’m a pest?”
    â€œIt was rather poetic, wasn’t it? And yes, it is. And at least I’ll tell you to your face, rather than saying it behind your back.”
    â€œFirst 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?”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œUm, what is Godiva doing?” she asked.
    â€œLast I checked, sleeping in her dog bed on my carport. Why?”
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œCrap. 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.
    â€œHoly 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?”
    â€œUgh, I know that stink,” Jamie said, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. “It’s your dead clams.”
    â€œI