Home-Grown Husband. Sharon Swan
experience a whole new way of life. It was the sharpest contrast he could imagine to the series of modern three-room apartments in his past.
Adopting a young, abandoned male basset hound just this morning at the local pound had been another. He’d never had a pet. Not so much as a goldfish, as far as he could remember. And even if he had, this brand-new arrival was a long way from a goldfish.
Oddly enough, though, while the house still felt strange to him, the dog had seemed to settle right in.
Jordan pushed away from the old yet sturdy refrigerator he’d had one shoulder propped against and walked toward the door, making his way over speckled-blue tile. “Time to go out, pal?”
A fast, enthusiastic wag of a skinny tail silently answered the question.
“It’s a good thing you’re housebroken,” he added, meaning every word. Given the life he’d been leading until now, he was far better equipped to handle a coiled rattlesnake primed to strike than a puppy in need of toilet training.
He let the dog out and shoved the door shut—only to wrench it open again with a swift jerk as all hell seemed to break loose outside. The peacefulness all around him seconds earlier, broken only by birds chirping in the tall pines, dissolved in a storm of frantic barking.
What in blazes was going on?
He found out, in a flash, when he stood on the long, covered porch and caught sight of a fat gray cat lounging on the wide top rail of the white, slatted wood fence standing at one side of the yard. The cat gazed down with clear feline disdain as the basset hound defended home territory with a zeal that might have been admirable if it hadn’t been deafening.
Before Jordan could try to bring order, the cat had jumped down from the railing and effortlessly landed on the far side. The dog, in an attempt to follow, shoved a quivering black nose through a thin space between the narrow slats, then wiggled back and roamed the length of the barrier that foiled him, growling nonstop.
“Give it up, pal, it’s over,” Jordan called, thinking it was—until the dog began to claw a path under the fence at a spot toward the rear of the yard where the ground had eroded.
Jordan noticed that slight dip for the first time. And it was too late.
Dirt flew. The dog squeezed through.
Then all hell broke loose again.
It was a woman’s startled cry that sent Jordan racing headlong toward the chest-high fence. He scaled it with little trouble, landed flat on booted feet with a soft thump, and steeled himself, more than half expecting to find a silver-haired matron on the verge of the vapors, dead certain he’d rather deal with a hundred of the meanest rattlers ever born than a single bout of hand-flapping hysterics.
It turned out he didn’t need to.
At least he figured as much when he found a far-from-matronly woman crouched down on jean-clad knees in the grass beside a two-story, wood-framed house very much like the one he’d rented. His was painted blue. This one was white.
And the woman was clearly seeing red.
With gloved hands clenched at her sides, and sporting a thunderous frown, she viewed a disaster in progress right in front of her as Jordan’s canine companion chased a furry target straight down the middle of a long flower bed.
This lady wasn’t hysterical, he told himself. Or upset. Even irritated wouldn’t begin to cover it. She was, in a word, furious.
Still braced for action, he gave some thought to making a fast return trip over the fence and leaving the hound to face the consequences. What had prompted him to think he needed a pet, anyway, he wondered. Sheer insanity, he was beginning to believe.
Then the choice to stay or retreat vanished when the cat suddenly changed course and headed straight for him, followed in a heartbeat by the dog. Both made a swift circle around him, then headed back and retraced their path through the flower bed to complete the destruction before racing off toward the far side of the house.
Rather than following their progress, a sharp, clear blue gaze pinned Jordan where he stood. He’d always been a sucker for blue eyes. Usually they’d been attached to a tall, cool blonde. As the owner of these eyes surged to canvas-shod feet, he noted she was neither tall nor short. Just about average height for a full-grown woman, he decided.
Her figure was neat and trim, her hair a shiny cap of honey-brown curls. Her face was more heart shaped than round. And if she wore makeup, it wasn’t obvious, even in stark sunlight. The flattering color on her cheeks might be due to sheer fury, but the rosy shade of her lips seemed natural.
Why he should think of wholesome to describe her, he couldn’t say, especially since she looked ready to wrap her hands around someone’s throat. Probably his.
“Is that your dog?” Even brisk with anger, her voice came out as soft as the grassy ground under his boots.
“If I say no, will you let me live?” He folded his arms across his chest, grateful she wasn’t shouting the place down, and tried for a wry smile.
Steps away from him, Tess stilled completely for a moment. The question, and the smile, had taken her off guard.
No one had a right to be that damn attractive was her first thought as she found herself staring frankly. Her second thought was that no one would ever judge this man as ordinary. Even dressed in well-worn denim, he made one heck of an impact. And no one would ever know you had a brain in your head right now was her next reflection, directed squarely at herself, as reality returned and had her blinking.
So what if a broad-shouldered, lean-muscled, flat-out devastating male, the type of man she’d never, by any stretch of the imagination, expected to appear in her backyard, suddenly had?
So what if he was tall, dark, and not quite classically handsome, but close enough?
So what if that crooked smile rattled her pulse and the hazel eyes above it seemed to bore right into hers?
So what? She was supposed to be livid.
“I’d say your survival could well hinge on getting that animal out of here,” she told him, clipping the words.
“I’ll do my best,” he hastened to assure her, his voice deep and low, rough around the edges, but not at all unpleasant to the ear. “I hope your cat’s okay.”
Tess let out a breath. “It’s your dog that will probably be in trouble when Roxy gets tired of fooling around.”
As if to prove that statement, a gray streak of fur came zipping around the house with a brown-and-white blur in hot pursuit. All at once, the cat spun around in midair, hissing, and swatted the hound flat on the nose with some well-placed claws. Then, to the tune of canine yelps, the victor leaped back on the fence rail and calmly stretched out, acting as if nothing unusual in the least had happened.
“Guess I don’t have to worry about Roxy,” the man muttered as the dog, head bent, trotted over to stand beside him. “Had enough?” he asked, looking down, and got a soft whine in reply.
Once again those hazel eyes met hers. This time, Tess was ready for the jolt and managed to view him coolly. He’d never know, she thought with satisfaction, that her pulse was still none too steady. In fact, at the moment she was sure he looked a lot more uncomfortable than she did.
“I suppose I should introduce myself before I take the culprit away. I’m Jordan Trask. I rented the place next door and moved in a few days ago.”
“I knew someone had moved in,” she offered in return. But I never anticipated anyone like you.
“I really am sorry about the flowers,” he added, sounding as if he meant just that.
Tess tossed a rueful glance over her shoulder. There was little chance to save anything, she knew. The damage was too complete. “I’ll have to replant,” she thought out loud.
“I’ll gladly pay for whatever you need to get the