Chapter 8
Chapter eight
A guy doing the bare minimum but thinking he’s profound
Logan
Dusty’s brushed, the kitchen counter’s wiped down, and there’s a box of macarons sitting dead center, placed to look as though I haven’t spent ten minutes deciding where to put them.
Angled and casual, like I don’t give a shit.
I do give a shit.
It’s logistics, I remind myself for the hundredth time. She needs to know Dusty’s routine before we hit the road. That’s it.
The knock comes earlier than I expect—sharp, not the breezy walk-in she pulls at the others’ houses, where she doesn’t wait, just enters. But she hasn’t done it to me yet, and that irritates me. And it irritates me that it irritates me.
I open the door to find her leaning against the frame, blonde hair pulled back, smile as bright as it was this morning when she came jogging around the bend and knocked daylight into me.
I’m not a morning person. But for a moment, when the sunrise glowed in a halo around her, there was absolutely no way I could begrudge the time of day.
“You’re very bossy over text, Miller,” she says in a sing-song. “Summoning me like I’m your personal assistant.”
Her grin stretches in a way that’d fool most people, but not me. I catch the flicker underneath, quick as a shadow, before she pastes it back on.
“Didn’t summon.” I grunt, stepping aside so she can come in. “As mentioned, I gave efficient instructions.”
She slips past me, and a hint of coconut and florals trails after her.
“Uh-huh. If that’s what we’re calling bossy now.”
Dusty skids in, nails scrabbling, tail wagging hard enough to rattle furniture. She drops to her knees, a laugh spilling out as he nearly bowls her over. The sound fills the house, and all of a sudden, it feels different. Fuller, warmer.
Her smile looks real now, the fleeting look she gave at the door gone, or at least buried deep enough that it’s disappeared from the edges.
After several squeaky dog compliments, she straightens and walks into the dining room, her gaze catching on the counter.
“Wait.” She points. “What are those?”
Macarons. Your favorite.
“A thank you,” I mutter, too rushed.
She walks over, squints at the label, then whirls back on me with narrowed eyes. “Gluten-free pistachio and rose.” Her tone is pure accusation. “Miller.”
I hold her stare. “What?”
“You bought my favorite macarons.”
“They’re just macarons.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her pink lips as she carefully opens the box. “Mm, funny. The bakery was sold out when I stopped in today…”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t move.
Her mouth parts as she looks inside, realization dawning slowly. “Oh my god… Because you bought them all?”
“Eli suggested cupcakes,” I grumble, heat crawling up my neck.
She gasps dramatically, turning to me and pressing a hand to her chest. “Cupcakes are for quitters, Miller. Pistachio and rose is an elite combo.”
“Rose is soap, Parnell,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “You’re eating soap.”
She grins. “If soap tastes like this, I’ll take a lifetime supply.”
I shake my head and mutter, “Insufferable,” but the word sticks in my throat, tangled with the swell in my chest.
“Pookie.” Her smile tips into something cutesy. She rocks side to side with her hands clasped behind her back, as if she’s performing for an invisible audience. “You got my favorite macarons.”
I grunt. “Just because I remembered—”
“You knew the flavors I like best.” She drags out each word like she’s narrating my confession.
“Tallulah, this is a thank—”
“You care, Miller. You actually care.” She cuts me off, purposefully ignoring me in favor of her performance, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.
The lip bite comes next, exaggerated and coy. She’s laying it on so thick I almost laugh, except my pulse is hammering in my throat.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She’s so radiant and pleased with herself that all I can think about is how hard she’s trying to fluster me.
But then, mercifully, her gaze lands on another box tucked against the wall cabinet.
“You were going to trash it,” she says, pointing at it with mock-offence.
I follow her stare to the flamingo. That pink inflatable monstrosity she tried to give me as a thank you.
“Never said I’d do that.”
“You’ve stacked it on this shelf like you’re waiting for trash collection day.” She steps closer, hands on her hips, sparkling with fake outrage. “My flamingo. Abandoned before it even saw daylight.”
“You’re welcome to blow it up and use the pool while I’m gone,” I deadpan. “Dusty might enjoy the company.”
The words leave me before I can stop them, and suddenly, all I can see is her with loose hair, stretched out on the flamingo float in my pool, sun glowing off her skin.
Her grin tilts into something sly and cheeky. “You picturing me in the pool, Miller?”
I choke on nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“No.”
“Uh-huh.” She taps the box with a painted nail, sealing her victory. “Bet you’d look good on it, too. Big bad hockey player, pink flamingo.”
My throat goes dry. I don’t know if she’s teasing or testing me, but she’s good at this. Her smile is bright, her tone easy, but something lingers in her eyes that makes it feel like more.
I clear my throat and reach for Dusty’s leash. “C’mon. Let’s get this routine over with.”
Dusty follows us around the house as I rattle off the boring parts—food times, the route he likes on Birch, the way he fakes a limp if he wants sympathy. Lulu dutifully nods, scribbling in a little notebook with one of those bright and sparkly pens she always has in her bag.
“You’re actually writing this down?” I ask, squinting at the pink ink glinting under the lights.
“Some of us take responsibility seriously, Miller,” she chirps, jotting as Dusty noses at her elbow. She sets the notebook aside and crouches beside him, both hands sinking into his fur. “And Dusty is definitely someone I’ll take great responsibility for.”
Her voice softens, coaxing his tail into a full-body wag while she talks to him like he’s the only one in the room. And the thing is, he believes her. Hell, I do too.
It’s a stupid thing, the way relief loosens something in my chest. If I had to drop him at some kennel, leave him with strangers, I’d spend the whole road trip waiting for a phone call. But with Lulu, he leans into her touch as if he’s already chosen her, and I know I won’t have to worry.
Before I can show her where his brush is, her phone buzzes on the counter. She stands to glance at it, smiles, then swipes to answer.
“Hey, big brother.”
Every muscle in my shoulders tenses. Not because she’s talking to Eli—he already knows she’s going to be dog-sitting for me. What twists is the way my gut reacts, hearing her voice bright and familiar in my kitchen, as if she belongs here.
I busy my hands with Dusty’s water bowl, filling it slower than I usually would while I pretend I’m not listening.
“Mmhmm,” she hums into the phone. “Yeah, long day. Dragon Delacourt popped in again, breathing fire as per usual. Honestly, the kids are more scared of her than they are of math.”
My head tilts before I can stop it. So the dragon principal she’s joked about at brunch before isn’t an exaggeration.
She rolls her eyes, fiddling with the edge of her notepad. “And of course Pamela made another scene. Yeah, Dylan’s mom. I swear she’s auditioning for Cruella de Vil at this point. But it’s fine.”
Fine. Except the flicker I saw on her face earlier tells me it wasn’t.
“Anyway,” she continues, shifting her weight, “Career Day’s next month, and guess what? Guess who was volunteered to provide the celebrity appearance?”
I can practically hear Eli’s groan through the phone.
“Uh-uh. Don’t even try. Delacourt already checked the schedule and said there are no away games. So you’re on the hook, Mr. NHL.”
She grins at whatever he mutters back, but it looks thin and practiced, as if she’s used to laughing off his dismissals.
“I’ll buy you a coffee,” she bribes, sing-song. “Or three. Don’t make me beg in front of the PTA.”
This time, I can hear his complaints from her phone, then his reluctant agreement. She beams like she’s won, even though her shoulders are still a little slumped.
I shove my phone out, thumb scrolling too fast as I open the food app, ordering my dinner for tonight. Without thinking too hard about it, I add another portion. Make it gluten free. Toss in a side of fries, just in case.
The call ends, and she exhales slowly, her eyes glazed as she watches Dusty. Then she notices me watching her.
“What?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair back.
“Nothing.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. I clear my throat. “Just wondering if you’re gonna make Dusty a color-coded binder next?”
She brandishes the glitter pen at me, her smile creeping back. “Don’t tempt me. He deserves organization.”
Dusty barks once, clearly in agreement.
Something in her face softens when she crouches back down to scratch his ears, and I know if I let her walk out now, I’ll spend the whole night replaying that thin smile and wondering if I should’ve done more.
“Food’s on the way,” I say, leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual. “You staying or what?”
Her head pops up, surprise flashing before her lips curve slowly. “Depends. What gourmet feast are we talking about here?”
“Grilled chicken. Broccoli.” I keep my voice flat. “Maybe rice, if you’re lucky.”
She gasps, hand to chest in mock horror. “Be still, my beating heart. You really know how to party, Miller.”
“Dusty doesn’t complain.”
“Dusty eats socks.”
***
We eat at the coffee table, with Dusty sprawled between us as referee, his head rotating depending on whose fork looks more promising.
“This is tragic,” Lulu says, holding up a broccoli spear. “You live like this?”
“It’s hockey fuel,” I deadpan.
“It’s bird food.”
“Birds don’t deadlift.”
Lulu nudges the other takeout container with her knee. “You ordered fries.”
I keep my eyes on the grilled chicken. “They came with it.”
She plucks one out and bites with a hum that’s entirely smug. “They’re for me.”
“They’re for Dusty.”
Dusty thumps his tail in agreement, and she rolls her eyes, lips twitching, then wiggles the remote at me. “Alright, your culinary crimes have been noted. Now, put on Summer Shoreline.”
I groan. “That dating show?”
“That cultural phenomenon.” She presses buttons before I can protest, and suddenly, a montage of spray tans and white teeth fills the screen, contestants introducing themselves while wearing swimsuits that should violate at least three laws.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. This is brain rot.”
“Brain rot with good lighting.” She grins and scoops up a fry.
“It’s people crying over margaritas.”
“Exactly,” she says, eyes bright. “High stakes, low inhibitions, cocktails in plastic cups. What’s not to love?”
“This is why humanity’s doomed.”
“This,” she says, pointing at the screen with her fry, “is why humanity’s fascinating. Look at the mating rituals, the alliances—this is pure anthropology, high art.”
“High art, huh?” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken.
“Absolutely.” She steals another fry and pops it in her mouth. “It’s honesty. No one hides their crazy when a camera’s on them twenty-four seven.”
“You’re saying this like it’s a good thing.”
“It is. At least you know what you’re getting.”
Something in her tone snags, and I glance over. She’s still watching the screen, but her smile’s faded at the edges.
“They’re ridiculous,” she murmurs. “But at least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”
I grunt in reply, but when one of the guys on screen tries to impress a girl by quoting Aristotle, she groans.
“God. That’s my dating life in a nutshell. A guy doing the bare minimum but thinking he’s profound.”
I glance over again. She’s half-laughing, but her shoulders slump just slightly.
“Had one of those on Saturday,” she admits. “Nice on paper. Asked about my class, which was sweet. But every time I talked about something fun like star signs, writing my manifestations, planning Charlie’s bachelorette, he… dismissed it, like it was cute and silly.”
I clear my throat. “Sounds like an asshole.”
“Not an asshole, just not… for me.” She shrugs, crunching into another fry, but her eyes stay fixed on the TV. “I swear, everything I like is either silly or frivolous to people. The principal at my school, PTA moms, dates—it’s always the same. They just label me a bit of a ditz and move on.”
Something rages through my chest because her words shouldn’t gut me, but they do. The thought of her dimming any part of herself—the light, the laugh, the weird little quirks that make her her—it feels wrong. She’s got more steel in her than half the guys in our locker room.
“I dunno.” She brushes salt off her fingers. “Maybe I just need to be more serious.”
“No.” The word rips out sharper than I mean it to. Her eyes snap toward me, and I force my voice to steady. “You don’t need to be more serious. The right person will take you seriously.”
For a second, she just blinks at me. Then her lips tug sideways, a grin fighting through, and she leans back on the couch cushion. “That’s because you’re a Scorpio.”
I snort, shaking my head at her deflection, but I don’t roll my eyes. Not when she’s half-teasing, half-testing. And I get it. It’s not about someone believing in star signs—it’s about someone believing in her.
I believe in her.
By the time the episode ends, she’s laughing so hard, she’s doubled over, curling into my couch, and clutching her side at some scripted fight over sunscreen. Dusty snores at her feet, lulled by the sound.
I don’t move, just watch her. Animated, alive, lighting my whole damn living room up. Her laughter softens when she catches me staring.
“What?” she teases, but lightly.
“Nothing,” I mutter, dragging my eyes back to the credits rolling on screen.
Logistics, I remind myself. Dusty. Nothing else.
But when she gathers her bag and tosses me a thank you at the door, I don’t move when she closes it behind her, leaving only Dusty’s snores and the echo of her laughter.
The house is immediately too quiet without her in it.