“Roxy would be heartbroken if she didn’t get to see you again.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, we can’t have that. Are you two free again for dinner tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
I grin at her. “As long as you meanhere, and not the bottom of a cliff, it’s a date.”
Chapter Five
Micah
Roxywatchesmefromthe doorway like I’ve lost my damn mind.
Maybe I have.
I’m getting ready for a date with a beautiful lawyer. Who would’ve imagined that?
I stare at myself in the mirror, clippers in hand, taking in the damage. My hair’s too long, a tangled mess, uneven where I’ve ignored it for too many months. My beard isn’t much better, thick and bushy.
I exhale, flip the clippers on, snap on the guard, and get to work.
Hair falls into the sink in dark clumps. I haven’t gone this short since the Marines. I run my hands over the short stubble of hair.If that’s not clean-cut, I don’t know what is.
I shut the clippers off and pick up the trimmer, turning my attention to my beard. I take my time with this part, trimming it down, shaping the edges, cleaning up the line at my neck. I want to keep the beard, but it’d be nice to look more like a well-groomed man than a grizzly bear.
When I’m done, I rinse my hands and look up again.Not bad. This is a guy who can stand next to Jenny without looking like a charity case.
“Well, Rox, what do you think?”
She huffs a sigh, thoroughly unimpressed.
“Just wait,” I tell her, turning on the tap to the bathtub. “Because you’re next.”
Roxy’s ears perk. Then flatten. She takes one slow step backward, as if sensing what’s up.
“Come on, girl,” I say, reaching for her. “It’s for Jenny.”
Roxy bolts out of the bathroom. She makes it halfway down the hall before I catch her by the collar. She plants her feet, all four legs locked, like she suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.
“C’mon,” I mutter, hauling her toward the bathroom. “We can’t show up with you smelling like a dead squirrel’s guts.”
She resists every inch of the way, nails scraping against the floor, tail tucked like I’m leading her to her execution instead of a bath.
The second she sees the tub, she digs in harder.
“Nope,” I say. “We’re doing this.”
I wrestle her in, one arm under her chest, the other guiding her back legs over the edge. She lands in the tub with a splash.
Then all hell breaks loose.
She shakes immediately, soaking me before I even get the dog-shampoo bottle open. I curse under my breath and grab thebottle, working it into her fur while she squirms and tries to climb out.
“Stay,” I order. She ignores me.
By the time I rinse her off, I’m soaked, the floor is wet, and she’s looking at me like I’ve betrayed her.
“Yeah,” I mutter, reaching for a towel. “I’m a monster.”
She lets me dry her with only mild protest, then shakes again, sending water everywhere one last time for good measure.