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“I believe we’re under time imperatives. Is there some place we can sit?”
“The picnic table out back,” the old woman suggested. “You two go on around. I’ll make us some tea, but if you’d toss one of those melons on the lawn, Cuddles will give your shoes some peace.”
Gwyneth watched with interest as her client snatched up a fat round globe, hefted it to his shoulder and sent it sailing over the sagging chain link fence running between the building she presumed was a barn, given the faded red paint job, and the side of the house. For a man undoubtedly used to having people do his bidding, Arley McNamara took orders well.
The hollow thump—and aroma of watermelon—drew the pig’s attention. The beast almost pranced towards the feast. “Molly was right,” he said. “Cuddles does love her melon. Thank you.”
His obvious sincerity made her heart do a funny little dance of its own. Flustered, she bent over to collect her briefcase from behind the driver seat then started toward the clearly defined rut in the grass, leading around the house. She tried to walk on the pads of her feet, but one heel became stuck in the soil. She lunged awkwardly, arms flapping.
“Bad shoes for the country,” her client said, rescuing her with a hand at her elbow.
“There’s a high-end strip mall less than five blocks away. That hardly qualifies this area as country, Mr. McNamara.”
“Arley. Please. Mr. McNamara sounds like my father, who definitely wouldn’t give a damn about Cuddles.”
When they reached a weathered bench-style picnic table that looked ready to collapse, Gwyneth sat gingerly. Does Armani repel slivers? Doubtful.
She set her briefcase on the warped tabletop and looked around. Untrimmed bushes taller than the building’s eaves in some places still sported a few roses and the withered remains of lilacs. The grass had been mowed recently, but the stripes of longer spots made it look as though the person behind the mower was a ten-year-old.
She shifted cautiously and lifted her gaze to take in the surrounding area. Competing rooftops vying for the prize of which would out-angle its neighbor towered above the little old farmhouse.
Have I entered a parallel dimension? How is it this place still exists?
“Quite the anomaly, isn’t it?” her client asked as if reading her mind. He’d somehow managed to carry two of the watermelon boxes from her car. The sight of his arm muscles bulging against the dark blue material of his shirt made her throat tighten.
“Ahem. Yes, it is. I honestly can’t imagine how the place survived this long.”
He hefted the boxes to a newer-looking plastic table on the home’s sagging covered porch. Remnants of ripped screens flapped in the warm breeze, framing his posterior perfectly. Does he run, too? That looks like a jogger’s butt. Damn.
She liked fit men who took care of themselves but weren’t lifting weights simply to impress women. Healthy, yes. Player, no. And I care about his reasons for working out why?
I don’t. I absolutely don’t. Flirting with a client only worked if you had no real attraction toward the person. Actually feeling an attraction for a client was a first. A very unwelcome first.
She dropped her chin to her chest and pretended to look for something—anything—in her briefcase. A pen. Check.
Legal pad? Yes. Old school. Professional in a way that will put Molly at ease.
Molly. The person she was supposed to be helping.
“How do you know Molly?” she asked the moment she felt the table wobble to accept his weight on the bench seat across from her.
“I don’t. I just met her last week.”
Gwyneth coughed against her knuckles. “I beg your pardon.” She’d assumed Molly was an old family retainer or related to someone he knew. “You’re spending thousands of dollars in legal fees to defend a stranger’s right to keep a farm animal within city limits?”
He nodded, his impish grin returning. She had a feeling he was waiting for her to say, “That’s crazy.”
Instead, she asked, “Why?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “Fairness. The satisfaction of helping an old woman keep her pet in a home that was here long before the neighbors moved next door.”
“You’re a Boy Scout.”
“Never had the honor. My mother’s idea of camping is staying at a three-star hotel, and my father wouldn’t dream of spending time alone with strange children. He barely tolerated the time required to show up for any of his only child’s school functions.”
His casual admission surprised her. Her father hadn’t been actively involved in her life until after her mother died. Not that she planned to tell him that.
“Well, I did a cursory check of zoning laws before I left the office.” To go buy watermelons. His bright grin told her he heard her unspoken complaint. “Once this lot was annexed into the city it fell under new restrictions. Homeowners are not allowed to keep farm animals on lots under three acres.” She checked her notes. “This place is one acre and change. So, technically, Molly is in the wrong.”
“Cuddles isn’t a farm animal.”
“She’s a pig.”
There was that smile again. “She’s a pet. Molly has the license to prove it.”
Gwyneth blinked. “A license?”
He nodded. “The vet makes house calls. Cuddles is not only current on her shots, she’s entirely flea-less.”
Sparks of excitement and possible arguments began to pop in her brain. She jotted notes on the pristine yellow sheet of paper. She didn’t acknowledge his joke. “Are there receipts?”
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