“No. I’m not proud of you,” Sy said, rooting around the bed of his truck and producing a garden hose. “Why would you think I’d be proud of you?”

“What are we watching?” Dean asked, coming up behind Maggie.

“Just a man hosing a half gallon of dog puke off the porch,” she told him.

“Try not to hold it against him. The guy will probably earn you your millionth follower in one episode,” Dean predicted.

“Don’t even think about getting in the truck like this,” Sy said on the other side of the glass. Kevin barked and bit at the spray of water like it was a game.

Dean snickered.

“I should get back to—” Maggie’s intention to work flew right out the window when Sy stripped off his hat and muddy T-shirt.

“Oh, my,” Dean said.

“Wow,” she said in appreciation for the very fine male form that was now toweling off his dog.

“Pants. Pants. Pants,” Dean chanted.

“He’s not going to— Never mind,” she said as Sy toed off his boots and shoved his thumbs in the waistband of his cargo pants. She turned her back on the window.

“Bright-red Calvin Klein boxer briefs,” Dean reported with approval. “Just the one tattoo. Spare flip-flops in the back. Garbage bag for the clothes and towel. He’s prepared.”

Only Dean would find preparedness as attractive as a muscled man in nice underwear.

“He’s telling the dog to get in the truck. Uh-oh. The dog basically said ‘fuck you’ and took off running. Now our landscaper is running,” he said, continuing his commentary.

Maggie couldn’t help herself. She crossed the hall and peered out the bay window in the…parlor? Living room? Den?

Silas, in fire-engine-red underwear that confirmed her assumptions about his very fine rear musculature, sprinted into the backyard after the dog.

“I almost don’t care what his estimate comes in at,” Dean announced. “You have to hire him just for the face and the comedy.”

“He does make an impression,” she agreed when Sy came back into view carrying eighty pounds of wet dog like a very large baby. “He’s an outrageous flirt.”

“At least he’s an ‘of age’ outrageous flirt,” Dean said.

“I’m not dating my landscaper,” she said definitively.

“Is he too old for you?” he teased. “Oh, look. He’s so flustered he’s getting into your truck.”

She pushed him out of the way and looked.

“Want me to go tell him?” he offered.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “Keep your trigger finger off the record button.”

She headed outside, across the wet porch, and down into the gravel and weeds.

“Hi there,” she said, approaching the driver’s side. Sy was behind the wheel doing a mad search of the console, presumably for car keys.

“Miss me already?” he asked, pausing his search and looking not at all embarrassed about being practically naked.