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“I’m thinking of banning jeans. Legs that pretty and a cunt that delicious shouldn’t be hard to access.” I take her coffee, take a sip, then pull a face. “How much sugar is in there?”

“Four teaspoons.”

Dear God. “Cream?”

“It’s good.”

“Horrendous.” For some reason, I find myself smiling as I get the chopped meat from the fridge.

Of course, Lucie Joy would drink horrible coffee. She has a history of drinking questionable drinks. As I turn, I catch the blooming garden scent of her, so I do what any reasonable man would. I grab her and kiss her hard. “Now that’s how I like coffee like that. Direct from your mouth.”

I kiss her again, licking against her tongue, sucking on her lip.

Then I step back.

“Why do you have meat and a leash?”

I grin. “Want to meet Arnold?”

“Who?”

“A stray dog.”

She skitters back. “I don’t like dogs, they scare me.”

“Not Arnold.” At her doubtful expression, I add, “Live a little.”

I hand her the wrapped meat from the butcher Declan found on Bleecker Street.

Then I go back out, pretty damn sure she’s following. I bet she won’t be able to help herself.

Arnold’s still out there, in the farthest part of the frontyard, which is not very far away considering how small the property is. But it’s dark, shadowy, even as the sun starts to brighten up the early morning.

For one second, then two, Lucie stands, hovering, doubt everywhere. And that fear’s real, but not crippling, but it causes her to dig fingers into the paper-wrapped meat.

Then Arnold whines pitifully and lifts his sore paw.

He tilts his head, anxiousness shining in his dark eyes.

“Oh my God, you cutie,” she says, pushing past me.

No one ever pushes past me.

Except this snarky lass.

“Baby, your little paw.”

She’s down on her knees, and remarkably Arnold is all wagging tail and zero growls. Like he recognizes good in her. Probably. I’m a monster, I know that. So does he. But I feed him. And I understand his spirit, how he’s fought the odds. He’s a survivor.

“You have a cut on your paw!”

Irritation is suddenly strong in me as she gently holds his paw and smooths a hand along his muzzle to his ears, her earlier declarations gone.

She shakes her head and looks at me. “You can’t keep him out here, and you can’t call him Arnold.”

“Yes, I can.” My brothers would get the name. Terminator or Barbarian seemed a little over the top. Arnold is subtle. Badass. “I’m trying to get him inside, at least to the backyard.”

I hand her the leash, but she pushes it away, then opens the paper containing the meat, feeding him a piece. He carefully gobbles it from her palm.