Ally blinked. “What do you mean, especially now?”

Hank glanced at the dog’s drooping, barrel-shaped belly. “You really don’t know?” he asked in amazement.

Ally waved an impatient hand. “Don’t know and don’t care. The point is, Hank…” she paused and stared at him defiantly “…the dog can’t stay here.”

As if on cue, a cold rain began to beat against the windows. After lighting the fire, he looked out at the gloomy sky again and knew the winter storm they had been anticipating had finally arrived. He turned back to Ally, not about to throw out into the elements the dog he had just painstakingly cleaned up. “I don’t know why not. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything, Ally. I plan to take care of her.” He lit the fire.

Crossing her arms yet again, Ally watched the blaze take off. “I don’t want a dog in the house,” she stated.

Hank moved his gaze away from the contentious stance of her shapely legs. “Well, I do. And since we have no formal written legal agreement in place banning a pet of any kind-and you already gave me another two weeks before I have to vacate the property-it looks like Duchess will stay. You, on the other hand…” he paused to let his words sink in “…are welcome to find a room at the inn.”

Ally did a double take. “You’re seriously trying to kick me out of my own home?” she asked, aghast.

Hank gave the logs another poke and replaced the screen. Slowly and deliberately, he rose to his feet. Noticing how his large body dwarfed her much smaller, delicate one, he murmured. “I’m just saying you have a choice, Ally. You can stay. Accept that it’s Christmas-a time of giving-and that this golden beauty landed on our doorstep, in need of shelter and some tender loving care prior to the big event. Or…”