Uncommon Pleasure by Anne Calhoun

holding her breath, knowing she couldn’t cajole him across the threshold into her home and have it mean anything at all, but all he said was, “I’m glad you got your dog back.”
    Then he left.
    *   *   *
    Ty dug his keys out of his pocket and climbed into his truck. Lauren and the ridiculous little trash-smeared sausage dog watched from the front porch as he turned over the engine and backed out into the street. In the rearview mirror he saw the front door close and the porch light flick off. He felt a disquieting blend of relief for having escaped before he gave anything else away, and disappointment. He’d wanted a woman, wanted
her
. And he hadn’t had her. He’d have felt awkward waiting around while she gave Gretchen a bath, like she’d take care of the dog, then take care of him. The alternative, helping her bathe the dog like they were a couple laughing in a commercial, would have felt worse.
    Neither option worked when his mission in life was to avoid feeling at all.
    Coming over unannounced was a mistake. In the months he’d been working on the rigs, he’d made a point of not seeking out a woman for anything more than sex, and not seeking out the same woman during his next shore leave. The single night in his hotel should have been enough, but seeing her at the business park, not in a bar or in his bed, changed the game, made her real, unique, and against his better judgment, interesting.
    He stopped for a red light and worked his shoulders to pop the kink in his neck. He didn’t want to know anything more about Lauren than where, when, and what turned her on, made her shudder and strain under him. Even seeing her as a professional in her tailored dresses and colorful accessories crossed that line betweencasual hookup and woman with feelings. When he could see her as a woman who wanted sex, nothing more, which was how he’d seen her in the Gulf Independent parking lot, he was fine. But then she joined him on the bench, invited him over because she was curious. And then, like an idiot, he went to her house and had sex with her again. Saw her home, her dog, the calm, knowing look in her eyes before he sought oblivion in her body.
    Every time he saw her he got what he wanted, and more than he bargained for in new facets of Lauren. There was the petroleum geologist, logging the well. There was the sexy woman in her slip of a dress, naked underneath, explosive chemistry. There was the homeowner. Now there was a caring, devoted dog owner, a woman who didn’t give up because things were hard.
    Bad news for him.
    The stomach-turning stench and mess on the driveway would have sent most women into hysterics, or at least unleash a steady stream of bitching and griping. Lauren didn’t flinch. That dog was hers, and if she had to get greasy, rotten meat on her hands to take care of Gretchen, she would. And she’d take care of the Lucases, too. He knew exactly how Lauren’s night would play out. Bath for Gretchen, shower for herself, and then, with her hair loose and damp over her shoulders, dressed in the T-shirt that was as soft as her skin and the tight cotton shorts, she’d pick up her phone and call the neighbor with the son who needed service hours. She’d gently suggest the son approach his church youth group about building a simple porch. It wouldn’t take long. A group of teenagers and a capable supervisor could do it in an afternoon, no problem. The neighborhood would be a slightly better place because Lauren lived there, cared, got involved. He used to do the same kind of thing.
    This was getting worse, not better. She knew he’d gone over for a booty call; she was too smart not to know that. Instead of getting offended and telling him to fuck off, she enlisted him in a searchfor the dog, and instead of walking away, he helped. Idiot that he was, he helped look for the damn dog, and went above and beyond to stabilize the porch. She was pulling him back into the world he wanted to ignore,