18 #3
He presses a kiss on my matted hair in answer, and it makes my stomach do a tiny dance.
“I’m sad to bring him back,” I tell him. “That’s the worst part of working with dogs. You can’t take them all in, but you want to.”
“How do you manage it?” he asks.
“Lots of crying, and wine, and more crying. Sometimes I sleep in the cages overnight. It’s very dramatic.”
He turns us, his hands entirely around my waist as he leans down to me. “You’re an incredibly empathetic person.”
My hands slip up his chest. “So are you.”
He smiles, and moves closer, as if to press a kiss to my lips. I jerk back, fanning myself like the heat has suddenly become unbearable.
Since we met, it feels like my brain and heart have been playing this game of fact or fiction whenever we touch, or steal a glance, or speak. Is it real? Is he playing it up for an audience? Are we just getting lost in the act? Is he genuinely just charming, albeit dangerously flirtatious?
But I already know it’s real—that’s what makes it harder.
He’s not playing anything up for an audience. He’s genuine. Honest in a way that feels rare. He is a good man.
One who may be easy to take advantage of. And I’m not a good enough person to stop from grabbing his hand. “Remember our night playing pool?”
He coughs, then glances over my shoulder, back to me. “Yes, but maybe we should talk about that another time.”
My cheeks heat as I shake my head. “No, not that part. The part when I scammed you and you bet a wish.”
“Oh, yes.” Then, again, I swear he can read my mind. He says, “Lucinda, I’ve never owned a dog before. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I could help you”—I squeeze his hand—“and it’d be so much fun.
You’ll have a little running buddy. And company, so you’ll never be lonely.
And Sora is such a sweet thing. Dainese says he never barks, even when all the other dogs are getting rowdy.
He’s potty trained, and he only eats twice a day.
He’s deaf, so you have to make sure he sees you before you touch him, but he won’t get violent, you just don’t want to scare him. ”
“Lucinda.” He removes his hands from mine and grips my cheeks. “Breathe.”
“Can you promise to at least think about it?” I beg. “I can answer any questions you have while you do.”
“I—”
Olive barrels into us, Sora close behind.
“Look,” she says, jumping in front of Sora and tracing a circle with her pointer finger. Immediately, Sora plops down into a roll. Olive claps her hands. “He’s so cute, how does he know to do that?”
I lean down, hold out my hand. Sora places his paw in it, letting me shake. Olive makes a delighted sound.
Sora moves from me, then circles the new face, his nose sniffing around Anders before rubbing his snout on the end of his jeans, then plopping down to lie beside him with a sigh.
Anders and I meet each other’s gazes, his eyes wide and soft in a way I didn’t have to manipulate. He leans down, lets Sora see his palm before giving him a head rub. Sora nuzzles into him, grateful, licking Anders’s hand in thanks.
Olive rushes back toward the water in search of a lost flip-flop, and Anders continues to pet Sora. I sneakily snap a photo of the pair with plans to use it as ammo later.
He catches me, and sighs. “Is anyone interested in him?”
My heart races off. “Nobody. He’s old and deaf, and nobody ever takes him out for walks,” I say, though that last part is pulled right from my ass because I’m not sure it’s true.
But Anders pouts, gives Sora another rub. “I travel so often—”
“There are plenty of dog-sitters,” I say, gesturing to Olive in the shallow end, “and one willing preteen.”
“Aunt Bethany would kill me if I brought a dog for a sleepover.”
“We can stuff her with allergy pills.”
He stands, and as if Sora’s own heart is drawn to the hope, too, he follows Anders over to me. “I’ll think about it,” he says. I smile widely, and Anders holds up a finger. “I said think, Lucinda.”
I hold up my hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
He taps the side of his head. “I heard it just the same.”
“Well, can you hear this?” I ask, then lean over and press a kiss on his cheek.
But as I pull back, he grabs my arm—gently, but purposefully—and draws me back in. His lips land on mine, direct and certain, like this is something we do, like he’s done it one hundred times, and he could land his lips on mine without having to aim.
For a second, I’m frozen. Everything about this feels startlingly real.
Him. And me. And this.
His mouth is warm. Familiar, somehow, like my many dreams and fantasies about the feel of his mouth on mine were memories instead of hopeless fabrications.
When he pulls back, I’m still blinking, heart stuttering. Then Sora yawns loudly and settles beside Anders, curling up directly on his shoes. Distracted, Anders looks down, sympathy pooling over his features, and he meets my gaze again. “I have a dog now, don’t I?”
I hear what he says, but it feels like he’s just reached into my chest and peeled the rib cage apart, grabbed hold of my heart and said, I own this now.