Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Nova
It looks cheap.
Probably because of the bite marks.
And, truthfully, it’s not all that expensive, just some gemstones, maybe even a few crystals, but there’s also a pair of minuscule diamonds at the center.
I know they’re real diamonds.
Because I bought this for my grandma.
Saved up for ages to afford it.
Now the pup I love has chewed it and there are missing stones in the wings, and one of those diamonds has disappeared into the ether—
That is Steve’s digestive system.
My heart pulses as I run my finger over the rough surface, feeling the bumps of each stone against my pads.
“It’s just stuff,” I whisper, shoving it back into my pocket.
But it doesn’t feel like just stuff.
It feels like more.
My head is pounding and I want to say it’s because I drank too much, it’s because I’m nursing a hangover.
That’s a lie.
The aches in my heart and head are because my sister just…took the jewelry and left without a backward glance. She didn’t drive up in the middle of a snowstorm to make things right with me, to apologize.
She wanted something.
And George, what? Was mad I left without a word? Wanted his maid and laundry girl back? Really needed my recipe for meatloaf? It is kickass, but…I don’t think it’s any of those. I think he was seriously shocked that I would leave.
I hadn’t before.
I put up with everything, took it. Because that’s what I do.
Run off my back. I don’t care if you hurt me. It doesn’t matter because I’m fine—I’m always fine.
Or maybe Ashley just wanted the jewelry.
I rub at my forehead, find I don’t have any more space in my brain for George.
He’s gone, hopefully forever, and I don’t have to look too closely at the reasons we were together, at why I picked someone like him to be with in the first place, to be with for so long.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say out loud.
“I find that usually the more I say that, the more it does matter.”
Gasping, I turn around and see Lake standing there shirtless and beautiful, Steve tucked under one arm, looking much more alert this morning.
“It’s time for his medicine,” Lake says, moving toward me and passing my pup over. “Why don’t you get that for him, and then I’ll take him out to the bathroom and make us all breakfast.”
Drawing my brows together, I shake my head. “You don’t have to—”
But he’s already turning away, disappearing back down the hall.
By the time I wrap a pill in a piece of cheese and feed Steve his breakfast, Lake is back, socks on his feet and tugging a shirt over his torso.
Sad, that.
Covering all that muscled gloriousness.
He stops next to me, eyes on the floor—thus, thankfully missing my drooling. He glances up, head shaking, mouth curved. “I still cannot believe a creature that small can make that much noise.”
My lips twitch. “Steve’s just making sure he gets every last crumb.”
A snort that’s very much like my starving pup’s. “It doesn’t look like he’s ever missed a crumb.”
Gasping, I bend and cover Steve’s ears. “Don’t listen to him, baby. You’re perfect, just the way you are.”
For what it’s worth, Steve doesn’t listen to Lake, and he doesn’t listen to me either.
He’s fully focused on food, on licking up every last morsel from his bowl—even with my hands over his ears.
I look up at Lake, and it’s to see something on his face that has my hands dropping away, my heart squeezing again.
I straighten, brush my palms on the front of my sweats. “I’ll get his leash.”
Lake opens his mouth, and I hesitate, but he just says, “I’ll get my boots.”
And then when Steve finishes licking his bowl—read, I finally pick it up and bring it to the sink so I can wash it—Lake carries my dog outside.
More snow has been dumped and I have the feeling that I missed my window to drive out.
To keep moving forward.
I should be upset.
But instead, I’m standing in the window, watching Lake trying to get my pup to focus enough to use the bathroom.
He’s put the leash on, which I don’t think is strictly necessary, since Steve’s leg is still in the splint, but one never knows with my pup, so I can’t really fault Lake. But even with my pup down a leg, he’s pulling his typical walk shenanigans.
Sniffing.
Barking.
Not focusing.
Not using the facilities.
I keep expecting Lake to be impatient, and almost went outside to interject.
But…he’s patient, just walking Steve slowly back and forth, letting my dog choose the path, letting him sniff to his heart’s content.
And when my troublesome pupper finally does deign to make use of his outside bathroom, Lake lets out a whoop I hear through the glass, bending to rub my pup behind the ears.
Steve’s tongue lolls out, a puppy smile on his face.
And there my heart goes again.
Stupid, huh?
“I think the snow’s going to keep falling like this for a while yet.”
I look up from my plate of blueberry pancakes—something that might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten—and meet Lake’s gorgeous hazel eyes. “Yeah,” I say, when he seems to be waiting for an answer.
“Are you going to go out and take more pictures?”
I inhale, heart doing that thing again.
But then I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “I don’t think so.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“I have enough shots to choose from,” I lie.
Hazel eyes on mine, studying the very depths of my soul. “I don’t think that’s it.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to think anything about my life.”
His head tilts the other way, still studying me closely. “You know your pictures are uncommonly good,” he says softly.
I shove another bite into my mouth, shrug. “If they were so good, I wouldn’t have gotten fired, would I?”
“Bullshit.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You don’t believe that.”
No, I don’t believe it, even though it’s a convenient excuse.
I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy it.
“You’re freaked after what happened yesterday.”
I freeze, a bite of pancake hanging off the tines of my fork.
Shadows coalescing into a person.
George’s angry face.
Pain shooting down my arms.
“Easy to solve,” he says, scooping the last of his pancake off his plate and into his mouth. “Just a matter of getting right back out there before the fear sets in.”
“Why do you sound like you’re familiar with that?” I ask softly.
He shocks me by actually answering. “I had a bad injury right after I made it into the league, nearly ended my career, and it fucked with my head during my recovery. The best thing my asshole of a coach ever did for me was sending me right back out there, letting my instincts take over, getting me right back into my groove.” He fixes me with a look. “So that’s what we’re going to do.”
Heart fluttering then squeezing hard.
“Why do you care if I get back into my groove?” I whisper.
He looks away from me for a long moment, long enough that I’m not sure I want to know the answer. So, when he looks back, I blurt out, “Steve can’t walk far.”
A pause.
Then, “You’ve got the crate”—something I retrieved from my car the night before—"But”—a nod behind me—“I think he’s happy where he is.”
I follow his stare, see that my pup is passed out in the nest of blankets.
My pulse speeds up.
I search for another excuse, another reason to not do this.
Lake doesn’t give me the chance.
He pushes up, takes my plate that I’ve somehow scraped clean without really noticing. “Get your shit, butterfly. We’re going to take some pictures.”