Golden Luckenbooth

Twenty-Eight

The knock on the door while I'm preparing breakfast startles me which, in turn, startles Piper and Shortbread, who leap to the door from under the table where they had been peacefully resting. Barking loudly, they look back at me to see if I'm going to answer the door.

"Hush," I murmur to them, "Go get your blankie." At my final word, Shortbread lunges for the couch to grab her ratty old blanket. The main advantage of the item is that she can't bark with it in her mouth. I'm working to train her to pick it up when there's someone at the door. Piper needs no such trick. My 'hush' is enough for her to quiet down, sitting on her haunches as she stares eagerly at the door, waiting for me to open it and reveal the guest as though we're on some game show, and she can't wait to see the prize.

Or in this case, my new roommate and assistant. Not necessarily in that order.

"Arran!" I infuse warmth into my tone so that he knows he's welcome – despite what he's about to face. "Come in. Come in. I hope the drive wasn't much of an issue."

"No. Not at all. I am, however, curious about the gaggle of girls out front."

"I think they would prefer to be called women or, at worst, lassies," I smile. "They're older than girls."

"So you know about them?" He inquires, stomping the rain from his feet onto the rug at the entry.

"Not exactly. I suspected they would be there, and you've confirmed it."

"Uh huh," he smiles. "That doesn't exactly track, but okay."

"Sorry," I mutter, "I wasn't trying to be mysterious or reticent to answer. It's just... you might be getting more than you bargained for, and I don't want you to decide this isn't the place for you. Not yet anyway."

Arran is a manly man in the form that would most please Candace Owens who famously said that Harry's dress-wearing on the cover of Vogue was an attack on masculinity. The short and scraggly hair on top of Arran's head can easily be ignored with a focus on the glorious facial hair. With a full beard carefully trimmed and a mustache that curls on the ends, Arran exudes traditional masculinity. Although his jeans look too tight, when he crouches to pet my golden retrievers, it's obvious that they're exactly the right amount of tight on his bottom.

Yes, my eyes stray there. I'm human after all.

"I remember you," he coos to Shortbread. "You and I met already, didn't we, girl? You're Shortbread. But who's your friend? She's pretty too." Piper wiggles her butt as she approaches Arran. Reaching out his hand, he chucks her under the chin, and I could swear that Piper nearly faints with happiness at the move. He's got a way with animals. That's clear to see, and brings me even more relief that he's the one I've hired.

Like me, Arran appears to prefer a plaid flannel shirt over a tee, and when he rises from his squat, I see that the shirt says 'Real Doctors Treat More Than One Species" with a row of animal silhouettes above the words. It makes me chuckle, and Arran raises his eyes to mine.

"The girls out front?"

"Um, yeah. About that..." I pause, unsure how to dive into this topic. "Can I get you a cuppa? Or do you prefer coffee?"

"Coffee would be great. Black please."

"Perfect. I'll make it, but let me show you where everything is so you can do this for yourself in the future." Nodding, he rises from the floor effortlessly, petting the dogs once more and instructing them, "Go lie down." Instantly, they obey, with Piper curling up on the floor in front of the raging fireplace while Shortbread jumps onto the couch and makes herself comfortable.

Narrating the coffee procedure, I pause when the hot water has been poured over the grounds. "Um...I needed an assistant because I'm pregnant, and that means –"