A New Shade of Summer

by Nicole Deese

  His mouth cracked into a smile. “Afraid I can’t take credit for that either. My mother started a small gardening business several years back, after we lost my father. I suppose it’s a form of therapy for her.”

  “Oh . . .” Well, that was one way to put a damper on our conversation. Maybe I should just come right out and ask him about the terms of his divorce papers, too. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

  He dropped his chin slightly. “Thank you.”

  We trailed through the minimally furnished living area—a single leather sofa paired with a matching recliner—and then into a kitchen gleaming with stainless-steel appliances and sleek modern cabinetry. He swung a left, and I gave in to the urge to glance behind me and capture the space from a broader viewpoint. My first assessment had been spot-on.

  Masculine. The whole place.

  Definitely no sign of a woman’s touch. No sign of anybody’s touch, really. The house was showroom quality yet completely void of personality.

  Questions far too personal to be polite pelted my psyche, but this time, I had the sense to shut them down. No matter the sparks I’d likely imagined during our earlier embrace, Davis was only my veterinarian. The idea of anything more than that was downright comical. He and I couldn’t be more opposite in our approach to, well, everything, probably.

  We reached an opening at the end of the hall. And there, in the middle of the mudroom, a large metal crate housed a familiar-looking mutt. Although, thankfully, a far less smelly one.

  “Hey there, big fella. You clean up well.” I knelt in front of his kennel, eyeing Davis’s handiwork on the dog’s front leg. “I hear splints are all the rage for this summer’s fashion season, so wear that proudly, okay?” I pinched the metal joint on the crate’s door, and he shuffled toward me, wagging his tail and panting. That IV pack must have been filled with something mystical indeed. The dog’s energy level had skipped from languid to lively in only a couple of hours. I rubbed his head between his ears. “Look at you, all Peppy McPepperson. That must have been some cocktail Dr. Carter mixed up for you.” He dabbed his coal-colored nose to my cheek. “Yes, yes. I thought you’d miss me. Which is why I bought you a few things to take to your future foster family.”

  At the mention of the store-bought goods, Davis set the bags down on the countertop between the washer and dryer. “What all did you purchase?”

  “Well”—I crisscrossed my legs and grinned up at him—“seeing as a certain vet bill had been magically altered to show a zero balance by the time I checked out at the front desk, I figured the least I could do was start this guy off on the right foot.” I laughed at my unintended joke. “Wait—I guess you did that part, too.”

  Davis breezed right over my witty pun.

  “Let’s see.” He reached into one of the store sacks, his eyebrows expressive as he pulled each item out one by one. “Food and water dishes, organic shampoo and conditioner,” he said with an added inflection that made me laugh. “And”—he examined a transparent package, turning it this way and that—“what exactly are these?”

  “Those are a uniquely formulated treat for Collies.”

  One side of his mouth quirked north. “I hope you didn’t pay more than half this sticker price.”

  He could hope all he wanted. “The lady—no, the canine expert—said these treats have several superfood ingredients for their coats or, hmm . . . maybe it was their teeth . . . no”—I snapped my fingers—“I’m pretty sure it was their eyesight. Something very important, anyway. And let’s face it, this guy can use a leg up in all those areas.” I winked, and I could have sworn I heard Davis snicker before he turned his face away and plucked another few items from the bag. A rope toy. A burlap pig. A tennis-ball slinger. And my personal favorite, the squeaky hot dog.

  “That one was a must.” I shrugged as the dog nuzzled his nose into my shoulder.

  “Says the one who didn’t catch hot-dog vomit in a pan today.” Davis’s eyes charged with something close to humor when a familiar dark-headed boy behind him caught my attention. I lifted a tad from my spot on the floor, maneuvering to peer around Davis’s solid form.

  “Brandon?” I called.

  Davis’s son came closer and sagged against the doorjamb. “Callie? What are you doing here?”

  “Hey! It’s good to see you,” I said. “Did you meet your new housemate yet?”

  “No,” Brandon said with a slight glance at his father. “How long is he staying?”

  “Two days,” Davis answered. “Just long enough to secure him a foster family.”

  Brandon nodded, studying the dog with an interest I’d seen once before in my studio.

  “Don’t just stand there. Get in here.” I waved Brandon over and scooted back so he could squeeze in the small space near the kennel. “This dog can use all the love and affection he can get.”

  Uncertainty flickered across Brandon’s face, and I sensed he was about to decline my offer.

  I regrouped before he could open his mouth. “Actually, why don’t you grab one of those awesomely made treats in your dad’s hand? This dog won’t be able to resist you if you feed him one of those.” I roughed the fur at his neck. “Right, boy? You’re gonna loooove those crazy-expensive Collie cookies.”

  Davis peeled off the seal to the bag and handed a single heart-shaped treat to his son. Still reluctant, Brandon approached, yet I doubted his hesitation had much to do with the dog and everything to do with the eager watchfulness of his father. Whatever tension I’d felt between them in my warehouse had since multiplied by a factor of ten.

  Just as Brandon crouched beside me, a male voice bellowed from somewhere inside the house. “Davis? Brandon? Hey . . . where are you guys? You should be in here salivating over this meal delivery.”

  Davis shot an indecipherable look in my direction, then pushed off the counter and headed out of the room.

  “Who is that?” I whispered to Brandon.

  “Shep,” Brandon said, canine cookie laid flat onto his open palm. “He’s sort of like . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know, my uncle or something. He’s known my dad since they were young.”

  Strange to think of Davis as a child. It seemed some people were born into the world as adults. Insta-maturity. “You like him?”

  “Who—Shep? Yeah.” The dog sniffed the contents in Brandon’s hand. “Everybody likes him. He’s funny.”

  Brandon chuckled as our friend turned up his nose at the organic treat and went for the stuffed—nonedible—pig instead. “What was that? Are you serious right now, mister?” I asked my furry friend in a stern voice. “This is super yummy. Eat it.”

  But again, the dog rejected our efforts.

  “Can’t blame him.” Brandon gave an empathetic sigh. “That’s how I feel about my grandma’s tuna casserole, too.”

  I snatched the treat away from Brandon’s hand and furrowed my eyebrows at the dog. In vain, I tried one last time, refusing to give up on the ungrateful canine. “Hey, dude. Listen up, this is not Brandon’s grandmother’s tuna casserole here. This is the caviar of all dog treats. The crème de la crème!”

  Bringing the crumbling heart to my own nose, I took a generous sniff . . . and recoiled involuntarily, barely holding off a gag.

  At this, Brandon choked out a laugh, and something in my chest free-fell at the sound. I kept the antics going, kept cracking jokes about the snootiness of the animal before us. And the almost-teen beside me, much to my utter astonishment, continued to find the scenario hilarious. Finally, I gave in to the chortling session, too. The dog, on the other hand, looked at us both as if we’d completely lost our marbles.

  Maybe we had.

  But at least the marbles that remained were happy ones—an emotion that seemed as out of practice with Brandon as it did with his father.

  Chapter Nine

  DAVIS

  In his usual no-knock way, Shep strutted into my kitchen and dropped the steaming mystery meal onto the granite. This had become our sta
nding Tuesday-night ritual since I signed on as an investor at the diner. And for the most part, the arrangement served each of us well—Shep got to wear his chef’s hat while experimenting with menu options and unusual ingredient blends, and Brandon and I got to play the part of willing guinea pigs.

  But tonight, I needed him to simply drop the goods and go.

  He peeled the tinfoil off the tray. “Mmm. Just smell that.” With the push of his hand, he wafted the Italian aroma in my direction. “This is why they pay me the big bucks—or why they will, anyway.”

  “Is that before or after they get tetanus from the construction site?”

  “You worry too much. Everything is up to code.”

  Any other night I would have challenged him on exactly which code he was following, but that discussion would have to wait. “I’m gonna have to bail on playing host tonight. Maybe you can take that to one of your brothers?”

  “What?” The look of feigned offense was the same look Shep had mastered when testing the dating rules at high school church camp. “I bring you a masterpiece, and you kick me out?”

  Callie’s voice swept down the empty hallway like a siren on open water, and Shep’s female radar detector had him swiveling toward the sound. His eyes flashed with wicked curiosity. “That is not your mother.”

  No. Definitely not my mother.

  “Like I said”—I reached across the counter to recover the tray—“tonight’s not a good night for this.”

  Shep’s sly chuckle neared predatory status. I could have decked him for that laugh. “Who are you hiding in your mudroom, Davis?”

  “A patient.”

  He cocked his head to one side and pushed off the counter, backtracking a step. Then another. “Last I checked, you took care of animals.”

  “The front door is the other way,” I said, jerking my chin toward the living area.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  My jaw tightened, but I stayed silent. Any comeback, any possible retort, would encourage him further.

  Shep’s eyes glinted, his hushed tone sharpening. “Ah . . . so she is pretty, then.”

  Several notches higher than pretty. But Shep didn’t need to know that.

  “Don’t.” One word that edged on a growl.

  “Relax. I’ll just say a quick hello.” His grin widened. “It’d be rude of me not to introduce myself . . .”

  “Shep.” There was no tease in the warning as he made a break for the hallway.

  But then another sound zipped through the house, a familiar sound I’d all but forgotten over the last few months.

  A laugh—Brandon’s.

  Involuntarily, my lungs compressed. Savoring the sound of my son’s joy, I held my breath.

  Shep slowed near the open doorway, his rush to ogle my stowaway no longer his top priority. He paused against the wall, hidden in shadow as the sound reverberated throughout the house—wheezy and youthful and 100 percent boy.

  Shep dipped forward, stealing a peek at the giggling duo, and waved me closer. But I hadn’t waited for his invitation. I peered around him into the space. My son and Callie were both in a fit of hysteria while the dog looked between them, his tail wagging. Through sweeping guffaws, Brandon said something unintelligible, and Callie repeated it back to him. Something about tuna casserole?

  The two were lost in a world of inside jokes, and something loosed inside my chest at the sight.

  “Whoever that gorgeous redhead is,” Shep mused, “you better do everything in your power to keep her around. I haven’t heard Brandon laugh like that in”—he huffed a sigh—“a long time.”

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing. I knew exactly how long it had been. Before his spring break visit with my in-laws.

  All that was about to change. I was done giving the Lockwoods free rein to influence my son.

  “Hey there.” Callie waved and then wiped a finger under her eyes, working to calm herself as she rose to her feet.

  Brandon rotated so his back was all I could see. He bent toward the dog and spoke in muted tones.

  “You must be Shep,” Callie said as she crossed the room, her movements closer to a flounce than a walk. With every sway of her hips, that gauzy shrug thing she wore dipped lower off her shoulder, exposing the creamy skin underneath.

  She reached her hand out to my friend, her opposite fist clutched around that overpriced dog biscuit.

  “The one and only.” Shep’s Casanova grin was going to earn him an elbow to the throat if he didn’t knock it off. This wasn’t one of his speed-dating circuits. “And you are?”

  Seemingly immune to his charm, she raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. “I’m Callie Quinn, although after today I’m considering changing my middle name. Brandon, what do you think of Callie “Rescuer of the Strays” Quinn?” She glanced over her shoulder at my son, who pressed his lips together as if to fight off another bout of laughter.

  “It’s definitely catchy,” Shep mused. “And quite heroic.”

  She touched a hand to my arm briefly and grinned. “Not quite as heroic as our Healer of the Strays.”

  “Ah yes.” Shep clapped me on the back. “Well, that’s who our Davis is. A local hero. Did you know he plays Santa Claus at the community center every Christmas? Wears the white beard and everything.”

  Okay, it was definitely time for him to go now. “Didn’t you have some place to be tonight, Shep? Something to do with helping one of your brothers?”

  Shep didn’t even bother to blink. “Easily rescheduled. It’s not every day I have the chance to cook for a new guest at the Carter house.” He inclined his head toward Callie. “You are staying for dinner, right? I can’t promise much in the way of company.” He hitched a thumb at my chest. “But I can promise you’ve never eaten a Gorgonzola and porcini mushroom risotto like mine.”

  Callie laughed. “Hmm . . . I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten that.”

  “Then, see? It’s a sign. You should definitely join us.”

  Callie shifted her gaze to assess me, as if trying to pluck a response from my mind. “Actually, I think I’ve probably reached the limit for imposing on Davis today . . . but thanks anyway for the invitation. I’ll just get my things and leave you guys to it.”

  She’d misread me completely.

  She started to turn back to the kennel, back to the animal who’d begun this entirely unorthodox situation. Back to my son, who, for a brief moment, had forgotten his self-inflicted misery.

  Unwittingly, I reached for her forearm, wholly unprepared for the delicate feel of her skin or the way her hair cascaded over her shoulder when she faced me. The curled ends swept across my knuckles like a whisper. “Please, stay.”

  Her eyes lingered on mine for several seconds, and every one of my reasons for avoiding the fairer sex over these last two years seemed to evaporate.

  And this time, when she searched my face, there was nothing left for her to misinterpret.

  Her stunning smile shone through her eyes. “Okay.”

  Shep smacked his palms together. “Great. Brandon, you’re my sous-chef tonight. Go clean up.” Brandon didn’t balk at the command. He simply closed the crate, glanced at Callie, and followed the taskmaster into the hall.

  “And you two are in charge of setting the table,” Shep called out.

  I angled my head toward the dining room. “He thinks every kitchen belongs to him.”

  “My sister’s that way too—only I’d eat her cooking every day of the week if I could, even if I ballooned to twice my size.” She patted her abdomen, drawing my eye to the subtle curves of her waist and hips. “I’ve always said good food is synonymous with a good life.”

  “Don’t say that too loudly or you might find Shep on bended knee before dessert.”

  Callie plucked a stretchy band from the back pocket of her cropped jeans. “Believe it or not, it wouldn’t be the first time a near stranger proposed over a good meal.”

  I stared at the enigma before me, watc
hing her twist and tie her hair into a nest atop her head, her curls spilling over like a fountain.

  “But before I touch anything in your kitchen”—she held her palms up and wiggled her fingers—“I should probably wash a certain dog biscuit smell off my hands. Permanently.”

  I gestured to the utility sink behind her. “Permanently? But what about all those health benefits the experts at Pet Palace told you about?”

  After pumping the soap into her palms, she scrubbed her hands under the stream. “Getting him to eat those nasty biscuits is a lose-lose.”

  “So you only engage in battles you know you can win.”

  Callie’s unvoiced thoughts morphed into a smirk. “I think you know the answer to that already.”

  Indeed I did.

  Chapter Ten

  CALLIE

  I leaned against the fridge door and pressed the phone to my ear, catching my sister up on the latest happenings with Operation Dog Rescue. Shep’s dramatic dicing of a red onion, like that of a late-night cooking show host, proved a difficult background noise.

  “What did you say?” The volume of Clem’s voice rose several notches.

  “I said, I’m staying here for dinner tonight, so don’t worry about fixing me a plate.” Through the sliding glass door at the back of the house, I studied Davis as he paced on the patio, the muscles in his back flexing beneath his shirt as he spoke to an unknown caller.

  “As in . . . you’re having dinner with Davis?” my sister asked.

  I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the signal. A solid connection. What wasn’t Clem getting? The concept wasn’t hard to grasp. A meal. Served inside a home. Enjoyed with other people. “Yep. That’s what I said.”

  “Ookaaay . . .” The longest version of the word ever spoken.

  Brandon set a delicious-looking salad on the table and paused long enough to watch me make my favorite sister face at Clem—head lolled to the side, tongue hanging out my mouth, eyes rolled back with eyelashes fluttering.

  I pulled the receiver away a tad and mouthed, “Sisters.”