Page 106 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
He shrugs. “Maybe I just wanted to taste you again.”
My heart skips. Heat climbs up my neck, and I look away before I do something stupid. Like suggest we head to his place. Or mine.
Rocky, and the Atlanta Strikers’ bad boy ways rubbing off on him, charges across the park and interrupts a game of fetch between a golden retriever and his flannel-wrapped owner. He snatches the stick mid-air and takes off in the opposite direction, tail high, full gallop.
“Rocky! No!” Grant yells.
We both crack up, watching mischief unfold in real time.
“That dog’s a menace,” I say through my laughter.
“He’s misunderstood,” Grant replies, grinning. “A little like his handler.”
I glance over, still smiling, then let the question escape before I can second-guess it. “What was your wife like?”
His face changes. Not closed off, but thoughtful. And then, somehow, soft.
“She was fire,” he says simply. “Italian. From Milan. Hated waiting. Loved being in control. Spoke with her hands. Cursed like a sailor but baked like someone’s nonna. Beautiful. Loud. Fiercely loyal. And she never let me off the hook for anything.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Because without even saying it, I can hear what he’s really telling me.She was just like Marlow.
I’m actually enjoying getting to know more about Maddy when the first complaint rolls in.
“Hey! Control your dog!” a woman in a matching vest-and-dog set barks across the lawn.
“Rocky! Drop it!” Grant calls, but Rocky doesn’t even glance back. He’s prancing now, showing off his stolen stick like a trophy.
Another man joins in. “Get your mutt back on his leash before I call the authorities! This is an off-leash park and your dog is clearly not trained to handle this kind of interaction!”
“Hey! Watch who you’re calling a mutt!” Grant yells.
“Excuse me,” I say, loud enough for half the park to hear, “but if your dog’s that emotionally unstable over a stupid stick, maybeheshould be playing with the little doggies!”
The man starts arguing back, the woman’s huffing, and now we’re being surrounded by grumbling dog owners glaring at Rocky like he’s the anti-Christ with four paws.
“I can’t believe this,” Grant mutters. “You people have got to lighten up!” He says, louder.
“You need to get your dog trained and keep a muzzle on your lady or don’t come to this park!”
Grant’s fists ball at his sides and I think I see multiple veins pop out the side of his neck. “Muzzle? You want me to pick you up so you can come say that to my face, little man?”
I look to Grant, eyes wide and full of mischief. “Do you want me to do the asshole thing?”
Grant doesn’t hesitate. He nods. “Do it. Do the asshole thing.”
I spin toward the angry circle and raise my voice like a battle cry.
“WHO WANTS A TREAT?!”
Chaos erupts.
Every dog within fifty feet loses their damn minds—tails wagging, leashes jerking, some full-on sprinting toward me, dragging owners behind them. It’s a stampede of fur and fury and confused joy.
“Leash him!” I shout, and Grant clips Rocky’s leash just in time.
As we make our escape—grinning like criminals—I take a final sip of my now-cold coffee and say, “God, I love fall.”
Chapter thirty-two
