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heart gave a lurch, and it took a minute for her to realize that part of the thudding she heard was actually Mickey hitting the floor and rocketing down the staircase to the front hall.
    She sent the beast to his crate in the utility room, then opened the door. Finn stood there in khaki slacks, a button down shirt and a navy blue sports jacket. His thick hair was freshly cut and his square chin freshly shaved. He looked like a coed’s dream. Okay, a mature coed.
    Steph took an instinctive step back as a slow, devilishly handsome smile spread over his face. Her stomach did a disconcerting flip.
    “Come in,” she said thickly, so caught up in the acrobatics in her midsection that she failed to hear the scraping of claws on marble.
    “Pretty tony neighborhood,” he said, stepping inside, just as a furry freight train came roaring out of the kitchen and down the main hall.
    “No! Mickey, no! ” The dog shot around her and pounced on Finn’s chest, knocking him back against the wall.
    Red-faced, she issued furious orders, but Mickey wasn’t going anywhere until he’d given Finn a Homeland Security-worthy sniffing.
    “Who’s this?” Finn seized the dog’s enormous paws.
    “Mickey—he’s still in training,” Steph said, swallowing the pride lodged in her throat. “Apparently goldens don’t mature at the same rate as smaller dogs. They’re sort of late bloomers.”
    Finn looked over the beast licking him and shook his head in disbelief. Then his gaze narrowed as he captured the dog’s attention, and after a brief stare-down, Mickey disengagedand plopped to the floor, tail wagging. Finn, he’d apparently decided, was more “treat” than “threat.”
    “Mickey—to your house!” Stephanie flung a finger toward the kitchen. “House!” The dog looked up at her with a catch-me glint in his eye that was nothing short of alarming. She lunged as discreetly as she could, grabbed his collar and escorted him to the kitchen. Finn followed, and by the time she’d installed Mickey in his crate and closed the door, she found him standing in the archway leading into the kitchen, looking around.
    “Pretty nice place you have, Miz Steele,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the opening, taking in the warm cherry cabinets, the thick granite and the handsome tile work. “Great kitchen. Do you use it?”
    “I do.” She paused to smooth her shirt and resettle her jacket. “I love cooking, when I have the time.”
    “And do you have time?” he asked, searching her face. She sensed he was asking about more than just the use of pots and pans.
    “I make time,” she said, wondering if she was revealing too much.
    “You do?” He turned that over in his mind, then grinned. “When you’re not walking that horse of a dog, you mean?”
    His smile melted the irritation she might have felt at his comment. “Yeah, when I’m not walking—or running after—my horse of a dog.” She inhaled sharply, annoyed at the way Finn seemed to be using more than his fair share of the room’s oxygen. “Mickey’s really a sweetheart. Gentle as can be with my nieces and nephews. The dogs at the dog park all love him.”
    “I bet they do.”
    A brief silence sent prickles—anxiety? anticipation?—up her spine.
    “Well, we ought to get a move on if we’re going to make our reservations,” he said, pushing off the door frame.
    “Reservations?” Her surprise was out in the open before she could stop herself. Finn Hartley never made reservations.
    “I thought you might be in the mood for a great steak. I booked a six-thirty table at McKendrick’s.” Finn paused a moment. “How does that sound?”
    “I love McKendrick’s. They have great seafood, too.” She grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter, and as they started down the hall, the glow from the skylight struck Finn’s chest. She stopped. His navy coat was covered in pale dog hair. Gobs of the stuff.
    “Look what he did to your coat.” She brushed awkwardly at his