A handful of household chores, sure, but he could enjoy them when he didn’t need to squeeze them in.
He did his version of sleeping in, so rolled out of bed before nine, let the dog out. Then, because he’d had the foresight to install a coffee station in his closet, he enjoyed his first Sunday morning cup on the bedroom terrace.
As usual Howl patrolled the perimeter of the backyard, defending against any possible invaders. Sometimes he wondered what went on in the dog’s mind, and usually decided not a whole lot.
Trooping down to the basement and his home gym, he put in a solid hour, felt righteous.
He grabbed a shower, a long one. Sunday morning indulgence. After tossing a load of laundry in, he fed the dog, scrambled some eggs, toasted a bagel. With a second cup of coffee, he sat out on the back patio and read the paper on his tablet while enjoying breakfast in the summer sunshine.
And because of the sunshine, he hung the laundry out to dry.
He put fresh sheets on the bed, hung fresh towels in the bath, dealt with the dishes, and considered his indoor tasks complete.
Because the day called for it, he puttered around the gardens. They didn’t require more than the puttering, as the grounds crew from the resort would tend to them if and when he didn’t have time.
Still, he knew how to tend, as part of his training had been a summer working with the grounds crew.
Howl lay on the grass in the sun and watched.
He worked in the quiet because he prized the quiet when he could get it. Just the chirp of birds—which reminded him to fill the feeders—the occasional mutter from the dog, the hum of bees doing their work.
Deliberately, as he did every full Sunday off, he’d left his phone inside on the charger. If something vital cropped up, someone would come get him. Otherwise, he was, for one day, incommunicado.
As an experiment, he dug out a tennis ball, showed it to Howl. Then tossed it. And, as always, Howl sat, watched the ball fly, land, then looked at Miles as if to say: What? Go get it yourself.
“What kind of dog are you?”
Howl’s grumbles and mutters equaled a canine shrug.
Miles got the ball himself, stuck it back in the garden shed.
By two, laundry dry, folded, put away, sun tea chilling, all chores stood complete. Now the day stretched ahead, tempted him to check his phone. He wouldn’t, a matter of discipline, but it tempted him.
He could sit on the front porch and read a book. He could put on his boots and go for a hike. He’d have to take the dog because it seemed wrong not to.
A hike, then the book made sense, but if he reversed it, he could swing into town, pick up something for dinner, spare himself the cooking.
Whatever he did, it had to be outside, as he considered it a crime to waste a perfect summer Sunday afternoon lazing around indoors.
Besides, despite Morgan’s ESPN comment, he didn’t watch much TV, sports or otherwise.
Thinking of the offhand comment made him think of her, which he’d studiously avoided doing all morning.
He really had no business thinking of her, at least not beyond the bar manager. But he found her so damn interesting. No question she excelled at her work—and as Nell had concluded during the last family meeting, they were lucky to have someone who mixed creative and organized in equal parts.
He didn’t like worrying about her but couldn’t seem to stop. The way she’d gone from raging fury to helpless panic when she’d grabbed that guest stayed imprinted on his mind.
He’d admired the fury; sympathized with the panic.
She’d lost everything but had dug down deep to start again.
He admired that, too. And more, respected it.
She had dreams, goals, hopes, he thought as he picked up the book he’d barely started. How many of those had Rozwell taken?
Someone wanted to kill her, and wouldn’t let her forget it. Yet she got up every day. She went to work, did her job, lived her life.
Or the one she’d started to make.
The combination of vulnerable and tough just fascinated him.
He could tell himself that fascination had nothing to do with her looks, but he didn’t like to lie to himself. Those looks, he thought, the way she lit up when she laughed, the way she moved behind the bar—like it was a freaking dance floor. And those eyes, simmering green and somehow always alert.
And now, Jesus, he’d stop thinking about her. Metaphorically put her with his phone on the charger and go read his book.
When he started toward the front door, Howl howled. He could come out, of course, and Miles would leave the door open so he could come and go. But since he didn’t carry the leash, the dog knew damn well he couldn’t go beyond the front porch.