Like Cats and Dogs. Alexis Stanton

What kind of idiot buys records?

      He glanced at her with annoyed disbelief. “It’s not the same. It’s like the difference between sunshine and a…” Spencer looked her over. She was just as attractive as she’d been at the train station, except now she gazed at him with exasperation. “A tanning bed.”

      There were no scratches on the record. He felt himself calm slightly. Standing up, Spencer faced her. “Okay, would you like to tell me what you and your dog are doing here?”

      “Look, all I know is I rented this house for spring break. See?” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to him. “I had to fill out this whole questionnaire.”

      Taking the paper from her, he squinted at it and walked to the kitchen.

      “And then I go out to walk my dog,” she said, “and I come back, I find you here, drinking my wine. I picked it up on the way here.”

      His face heated. “Oh. I thought it was a gift from the rental company.”

      “Nuh-uh,” she said as he pulled out his glasses from their case.

      He slipped on his spectacles and reviewed the paper she’d given him. From his briefcase on the counter, he pulled out a similar document, except his wasn’t wrinkled or covered in feminine cursive, like hers.

      “I filled out the same questionnaire,” he said, placing his sheet of paper next to her. She glanced at both lists of questions.

      “Starting today,” she noted.

      “Starting today.”

      “Obviously,” she said, “there’s been some sort of mistake.”

      “Obviously. But I don’t know how. It was a very personal questionnaire. They seemed to have every other detail covered.” When he’d filled it out, it had seemed particularly strange, but he’d shrugged it off and attributed it to the house owner’s peculiarities. “I mean, Favorite Color, Favorite Food, Favorite Movie.”

      “What did you answer for food?” the blonde asked.

      “Italian.”

      She eyed him. “Me, too.”

      “Favorite movie?” he asked, expecting to hear her name something like Titanic or Bridesmaids.

      “Casablanca,” she said without hesitation.

      “Me, too.”

      They stared at each other. Never would he have believed that a woman her age would love that film. But it seemed that she did.

      “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe they thought we’re the same person.”

      He considered this. “Maybe.” It made an appalling kind of sense.

      She held out her hand. “Laura Haley.”

      Spencer lifted an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

      “If we’re going to be stuck in the same boat,” she said, “we better know each other’s name. Mine’s Laura Haley. What’s yours?”

      “Spencer,” he said as he removed his glasses. “Spencer Hodkins.” Seeing as how it was the only polite thing to do, he shook her hand.

      A current of awareness passed through him when their hands touched.

      He shook his head, dismissing it. Clearly, he was tired and confused. He had a girlfriend, and besides, he’d only just met Laura.

      “Well, Spencer Hodkins,” she said. “It appears as though we have ourselves a little problem.”

Chapter Three

      Laura considered herself a fairly easy-going person. It usually took a lot to light her fuse—like the time Rose had “borrowed” her favorite yellow dress and spilled chocolate sauce and red wine on it, then stuffed it into a corner of Laura’s closet, hoping it wouldn’t be missed. It had taken a whole day for Laura to speak to Rose, and then only after a gift of s’mores.

      In that case, Laura had been angry but not permanently so. What mattered was that Rose had been genuinely sorry. Seeing the remorse in her best friend’s eyes had wiped away her lingering anger.

      There was something about Spencer Hodkins, though, that brought all of Laura’s nerves on edge. Maybe it was the way he’d called Frank a “mean dog,” when everybody who knew Frank loved him. Or maybe it was the high-handed way Spencer had looked at her when she’d suggested he download that classical music—like she was some kind of airhead.

      Or maybe it was the fact that he was undeniably cute, and she wasn’t ready right now to find any guy cute.

      In any case, the sooner he got out of her house, the happier she’d be. He’d sent off an email to the rental company. Now they just had to wait.

      While they bided their time, there were more pressing matters to attend to, including feeding a very hungry dog.

      “There you go, Frank,” she said as she poured kibble into his bowl. “Specialty of the house.”

      The dog began to eat, blissfully unaware that the source of his owner’s irritation sat only ten feet away on a barstool at the kitchen counter. Laura hovered over Frank, more unwilling to get closer to Spencer than she was concerned for her pet’s appetite.

      A chime sounded from Spencer’s laptop, drawing her attention.

      “Ah, great,” he said. “The rental company just got back to us.”

      Drawn by curiosity—and definitely not a need to sniff Spencer’s woodsy aftershave—she went to stand next to him and look at his computer screen. She had to lean close so she could read the email. That was the only reason she got into his personal space.

      He read, “‘We will…’” He paused and glanced at her before edging back slightly. She pretended not to notice, even though it stung a little. Did she smell like wet dog, or something?

      “‘We will look into the matter,’” Spencer said, “‘and get back to you.’”

      “There we go. Problem solved.”

      He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a little optimistic.”

      “I’m an optimistic person.”

      “That’s not what I mean,” he said as if fighting exasperation. “That’s an automated response message. They probably didn’t even read my email.”

      “Maybe you should have been a little more personal,” she said. He thinks he’s so smart. She waved at his laptop. “Here. May I?”

      He looked skeptical, but said, “Be my guest.”

      After pulling the computer closer to her, she began to type, speaking aloud for Spencer’s benefit. “‘Hi! How are you? I’m fine. I’m loving the house you found for me here in South Haven. Now, I don’t want to be a bother or anything, but I was wondering if you could help me with a little problem I’m having. You see, there’s this man who—’”

      Before she could type any more, he tugged the laptop away from her. “Maybe we should just leave it as is.”

      “I thought you wanted a reply.”

      “I do,” he said in a maddeningly instructive tone, “but it’s a psychological fact that people respond better to polite, short exchanges on the internet than to long, drawn-out and weirdly chatty emails.”

      Ugh. The nerve of this guy. “And you’re an expert on this?”

      He straightened. “I am actually working toward my PhD in psychology right now.”

      “Oh, really,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

      “Really.