“Gertrude.”
The six-pound Yorkshire terrier, aka Graham’s beloved pet, sat in the doorway and stared, her beady brown eyes calculating.
Most people adored Gertrude. On the rare occasion Claire accompanied Graham when he took her on a walk or tucked her under his jacket while roaming the aisles at Target, everyone who passed cooed and raved in ridiculous, high-pitched voices about how cute she was.
And when Graham was around, Gertrude did indeed act the perfect pet. Tiny, cute, and cuddly…and with a face like that, she had to be sweet and affectionate, right?
Wrong.
Less than twenty-four hours after Graham had moved into the condo with Claire and Reagan—which, at first, seemed like the perfect solution to fill the vacant roommate spot—Gertrude had made her true personality known.
She was a possessive, high maintenance, domineering little bitch.
The first time Claire had touched Graham in Gertrude’s presence—a friendly but well-deserved slug to the shoulder after he’d said something sarcastic—Gertrude had gone batshit. As if Graham, over six feet and as athletic as they came, needed a miniature, maniac dog to defend him.
Somehow, with time, Reagan had gotten past the little terror’s defenses. But not Claire.
Gertrude hated her, and the feeling was mutual.
Keeping one eye on the dog, Claire pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a band from around her wrist. She took one step closer to the threshold and put her hands on her hips, tipping her chin up a notch as if performing a stare-down ritual with an opponent in a boxing ring.
“I see what you’re doing, G.”
Gertrude didn’t even blink. The nameplate on her bright pink collar reflected the light from the hallway. An attempt to blind Claire before she went in for the attack, probably.
“I’m not afraid of you.” Claire scooted to the side and went around the dog, who rumbled a growl as she passed. “If you so much as touch another pillow with your teeth, I’m evicting Graham.”
“Are you threatening the dog again?” Reagan asked as Claire entered the kitchen. Graham must have already gone to the porch, where they usually congregated.
“Indirectly.” They made their way to the front door. “Do you see the way she looks at me?”
“You’re not so nice to her, you know.”
“She started it.”
Claire opened the door and followed Reagan outside. Graham was in the rocking chair, leaving them to take the porch swing he’d finally installed after several weeks of Claire’s whining.
Could she have done it herself? Yes.
Well, possibly.
Was it easier to badger Graham into doing it for her? Also yes.
She wasn’t a helpless woman by any means, but it was still nice to have a man around every now and again.
The trio had been roommates for almost a year now. Claire had lived in the condo with her best friend, Mia, for several years, and a little over a year ago they’d decided to add a third person to share a piece of the exorbitant Denver rent. They met Reagan, a grad student looking for a place to live, and it had worked out great for the first month.
Then Mia had up and gotten married and moved out, sending Claire and Reagan into a search for a replacement. Even though Claire had been friends with Graham for years, she hadn’t considered asking a guy to move in until he brought up needing a new place. Sure, she’d had a few drinks when she agreed to the arrangement, but it had actually turned out well.
Other than a constant battle over the thermostat and his hellion terrier, he was a damn good roommate.
Case in point—he handed over the bottle of wine he’d brought outside along with two sticks of string cheese.
“I heard your stomach growling when you passed me,” he said quietly. “And I’m not sure how bad your day was.”
Read: I don’t know how much you’ll drink tonight.
Graham popped the cap off a beer as Reagan took the wine bottle and poured two healthy glasses. She handed one to Claire. “Okay. I’m armed and read to listen. What happened at work?”
Claire took a deep breath and a long sip of wine before she spoke. “I witnessed a marriage proposal.”
Graham sucked in a breath. “Shit, are you okay?”
She glared at him. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious.” He looked it, too. “That’s traumatic.”
Reagan leaned down to set the wine bottle on the porch, keeping her glass in her hand. “A proposal in the emergency room? Was it an employee or something?”