Page 17 of Finding Forever

“He looks as though he enjoys living in Sunrise Bay,” I said.

“He’s never had so much freedom. When he was on patrol, his days were spent in Grand Central Station, the subway, or on the streets of New York City. Central Park was the closest we found to what’s here.”

Sherlock woofed, then sat quietly at Eric’s side. I used my phone to take some pictures of him.

With a curious gaze, Sherlock lifted his head and looked straight at the camera.

“He’s a supermodel.” I laughed at the comical expression on the German Shepherd’s face. “Why did your friend name him Sherlock?”

“Mike read my first novel before it was published. My main character’s dog is called Sherlock. It stuck to this little guy when he arrived.”

I knelt on the ground and rubbed Sherlock’s thick coat. “Your name suits you.” Sherlock’s pink tongue licked the side of my face. I laughed and moved out of his way. “As cute as you are, I don’t want your tongue anywhere near me. You can save your slobbery kisses for Eric.”

I slipped my phone into my pocket and looked at Eric. For some reason, he seemed surprised. “I have to get back to the cottage. If you don’t see me for a few days, don’t worry. I’ll come up for air eventually.”

“You know where I am if you need me.”

I smiled. “I do.” I gave Sherlock another pat before heading home.

I imagined the blank canvas sitting on my easel, waiting for the first brushstroke to bring it to life. My mind was already racing over different possibilities, the twists and turns that would make the painting special.

By the end of the day, the image would be fully sketched and ready for the first layer of paint. From there, it was a matter of letting the painting tell its own story. A story that would be as unique as the man living next door to me.

thirteen

ERIC

Three days later, I turned on the microwave and reheated the leftovers from last night’s dinner. I’d already taken Sherlock for a walk, thrown out the trash, and brought my laundry inside.

I’d also finished chapter six of my book, discovered an interesting person in my hero’s past, and given the medical examiner a flimsy alibi on the day the dead body went missing from the morgue. Not bad for a day that started with a bang. Literally.

At precisely five thirty-six, a pale blue Ford Fiesta collided with an oak tree at the end of the street. The tree survived. The car didn’t.

I’d thrown on my tracksuit and rushed outside. Riley wasn’t far behind me. While I helped the driver, Riley called 9-1-1 and found a first aid kit in the trunk. The car was a rental, the driver, a tourist. After a long flight and an even longer drive, the man from Australia was about to discover the joys of paperwork. Falling asleep behind the wheel of a car wasn’t something he’d be doing again in a hurry.

It wasn’t until the man was being driven away in the ambulance that I noticed what Riley was wearing below his red sweatshirt.

He blushed when he caught me staring at his legs. Long, muscular legs wearing silk boxers covered in bright blue pictures of Cookie Monster.

Riley glared at me. Only it wasn’t a mean-ass glare that told me to back off. It was the type of glare that dared me to say something.

Which would have been fine and dandy if I could have thought of something to say. But by some miracle of human biology, my brain short-circuited and left me bug-eyed and tongue-tied.

I really needed to get a life. Thirty-nine-year-old men don’t go gaga over a pair of male legs. Except I had, and I wasn’t sure it would lead to a productive day in the office.

So, after Riley made a hasty escape, I went for a swim in the lake. A cold swim that did nothing to erase the image of Riley’s legs from my brain. It wasn’t until Sherlock jumped on my back and nearly drowned both of us that I started thinking logically.

Long legs or not, I was on a mission and chapter seven would wait for no one.

The microwave beeped and I took out my mac and cheese. The congealed mess did nothing for my appetite, but food was food. When I was on a roll, the only thing I needed was fuel. Whether it looked okay wasn’t important.

Sherlock followed me onto the veranda, not even bothering to poke his nose into my plate.

Looking at the gooey pasta, I didn’t blame him.

Sherlock’s nose twitched at about the same time mine did.

Roast chicken.