Page 22 of Chasing I Do
Red gave an amused smile, and Gage smiled back, dialing the charm to magnetic. Even Littleshit played along, lifting those big dark brown doggie eyes her way and giving a cute puppy sigh. “Aw, what’s his name?”
Gage groaned. “Fancy.”
Red bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Fancy?”
“He’s a real lap dog, would make a great house pet.”
“Then why are you giving him away?”
“I’m allergic.”
She laughed and unlocked her car door. “I thought it was because of the presentFancyleft on the passenger side.” With a wink, Red slammed her door and drove off.
Gage ducked down and that’s when he saw the “present,” sitting two inches from the wee-wee pad. With his most intimidating frown, he looked down at Fancy—who was tucked against his side, fast asleep.
A few choice words later, the sleeping dog was in his carrier, the poo was in the wadded up wee-wee pad, and Gage was three rows over, depositing the present on the seat of Owen’s motorcycle.
Climbing in his car, Gage called his secretary to cancel his morning appointments, then toyed with the idea of emailing Darcy back. But was afraid she’d pencil him in sometime after his niece graduated college. And he was tired of waiting…
For things to get easier, for the perfect time to reach out, for the universe to go pick on someone else for a while.
Gage’s story was a series of right girl wrong time, and he was no closer to figuring out what to do about the attraction than when he’d first met her seven years ago. So he’d kept his distance, dating other women, playing the friend card. It had been the right move, and Gage liked to consider himself a good guy.
But it was no longer about him and her, or whatever unsettled business still lay between them. This was about family, so he snapped in his co-pilot and started the car.
Twenty minutes later, he was driving up the steep and winding streets of West Hills, passing by some of the oldest homes in the area. Turning down the brick road, which was lined on either side by the dozens of heritage crepe myrtle trees and led to Belle Mont House, Gage smiled fondly.
She was driven, he’d give her that. Darcy had done what so many other developers had failed. She’d resurrected one of Portland’s oldest landmarks and brought back its glory. And she’d done it all on her own.
He parked in front of the main house and stepped out of the car, greeted by the gentle scent of rose petals and moss, which clung to the white oak trees scattered around the property. It had been a while since he’d spent a day away from the office and out in the sunshine. The sound of the rustling leaves was enough to bring a sense of calm that had been—
“Yip!”
Gage closed his eyes and counted to three—he’d intended to go all the way to ten, but after his nap, Fancy was rearing to go.
Gage scooped the dog out of his cage and clipped his leash on before setting him on the brick path. Fancy went to work sniffing the tires, the nearby tree, then the wide front porch step. Where he lifted a leg and did some more business. This one didn’t require a cleanup, but irritated Gage all the same.
“Nice first impression,” Gage said, ignoring that his hadn’t come off any better. “Between the high pitched bark and that frilly shit you wear, all of the girl dogs are going to start asking if you had your boys clipped.”
Fancy whipped his head, so his ears went to the side like he was in a boy band. Then he sat, poised, cleaning his dainty little paw.
“With all of the chick magnet dogs out there, I get you.”
“Yip!”
“If you’re good, I’ll take you to the mall and buy you some flannel, or maybe one of those ‘Bitches Love Me’ T-shirts.”
With a gentle tug, Dog Wonder-ful pranced up the steps and into the house, a bell jingling behind them. The front room was impressive, mahogany floors and wainscoting, with ornate molding around the ceilings and dramatic arches. The furniture was turn of the century, the chandelier tiffany, and the windows original leaded glass, which cast a rainbow glow around the room.
Belle Mont House wasn’t just historic—it was a piece of art.
Gage looked at the hand painted details around the each of balusters, and tried to picture Darcy in jeans and an old college tee—her hair in a messy ponytail, her hands speckled in paint. He’d always liked Messy Darcy, almost as much as he liked Warm and Soft Darcy. But his new favorite, he decided, as he pushed through the back door of the house, was Polished Darcy in her business-ready blouses, slim fitted skirts that hugged her curves and ended just below the knee, exposing those mile-long legs of hers. Which were always finished off in a pair of fantasy inspiring pumps.
Today the blouse was buttoned, the skirt cream, and those pumps fuck-me red. And the relaxed smile on her pretty face said she hadn’t seen him yet.
She stood at the head of the table, looking poised and confident, with a presentation easel behind her that read,HEIRLOOM BLOOMERS. CELEBRATING 100 YEARS OF FLORA HERITAGE.
“We could set up tables throughout the rose garden. Six-seater round tables in a cluster so that the group is kept together, but yet still invites intimate conversations,” she said to the table of ladies in the gazebo.
