I stand and put warm water on a clean kitchen towel, then sit back cross-legged next to her. “Here,” I say, awkwardly patting the puppy’s fur.
“Awww look what Daddy brought,” she says, moving the puppy my way while I clean him. Our fingers keep touching, and I try to avoid it but I can’t. “What should we call them?” I ask.
Because the vet established the mom was in bad shape, was not tagged, and had signs of abuse, we’re not looking to reunite her with her previous owners. The vet said once momma dog was spayed, she could help finding her and the puppies good familieswhen the time comes. Her exact words, and I’ve come to hate them.
“I don’t know, what do you think?” she says.
“Maybe we should let their future owners decide.”When the fucking time comes.
“Oh… Oh right.” Are her eyes welling up? She kisses the puppy’s nose and gently puts him down. He sneezes, then follows his brother wandering around the kitchen on wobbly paws. Willow gets on her knees to fetch the third puppy—the shyone. “Hi,” she says. The little creature is shaking. “You poor little thing. You have the right idea. Better not get attached to us, if we’re going to give you away.”
My throat tightens as she sets the puppy between her mother’s paws. I feel like shit.
“Obviously, I mean maybe, we could keep ’em.” They’re big dogs, but this house is large, and there’s the barn and meadows where they could live happily in the summer. “What do you think?” I ask her as she stands.
Her gaze meets mine. “We don’t need to decide that right now. I just thought…”
I stand and brush my hands together. “Yes?”
“While they’re with us, it’d be nicer if they had names. When you decide to give them away, they can always take a different name. It’s not forever.” She says all this while she prepares her second cup of coffee of the day and pours it in the to-go cup that Millie gave her, with her name, Willow Callaway, written all around it.
She sees me look at the mug, and the air suddenly gets heavy. “They could also end up staying here forever,” I say, looking her straight in the eyes. “I find myself getting attached.” This time, for sure, she’s going to tell me off. When she doesn’t, I push her. “Don’t you?”
“I’ve been attached since the second I saw them. It’s the falling in love and having to say goodbye part that sucks. But that’s part of life, isn’t it?”
My heart threatens to escape from my ribcage. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Her lips part, she takes a short inhale as if she’s about to say something heavy, but then her alarm rings. “Almost time to go open the store,” she says, and god—god!—I’ve never felt so happy about going to the store. “We still have time for granola and yogurt, but first let me change into a clean clothes.”
After a quick breakfast, we let momma dog out, refill her water, and lay newspapers on the floor for the little ones’ business.
Then Willow takes her pretty travel mug of coffee and we step outside. In a practiced movement, I take her free hand in mine, and she twines our fingers together as we cross onto busy Elm Street. She’s warm under my touch, her fingers strong. Her shoulder rubs against mine, our forearms linked, her floral scent wafting to me. I tilt my head to the sky and close my eyes for a brief second.
“Everything okay?” There’s real concern in her tone.
I give her hand a squeeze. “Just saying a quick thank-you to the guy upstairs.”
She tilts her head to me. “For what?” she asks sweetly.
I take a moment to admire the way the sun plays with her irises, gold speckles dancing in the hues of chestnut. “For you.” Her gaze turns darker, telling me so much more than her silence.
And her lips are very close to mine, and if we weren’t standing on the street right now I’m pretty sure I’d be kissing her. “Can I finally take my wife out to dinner?”
I need us to stop with the innuendos. I need an open conversation, and for that I need time off from the store, from Lilyvale, from our obligations.
I need to romance my wife.
thirty-two
Noah
Chloe seats us at a very private table, “the nook of The Nook,” and I look into Willow’s eyes as we clink our glasses of expensive Bordeaux. Her discreet floral fragrance (rose? lilac?) spirals around me, drawing me closer. No matter what happens next, this will forever be the scent of happiness. She spent an hour in the bathroom getting ready, and although she’ll never be more beautiful than all messed up from sleep in the morning, I have to admit the shine of her lush brown locks, the glow of her skin, the sparkle of her jewelry, all make her heart-stoppingly, head-spinningly gorgeous.
All I want is to cup her nape in my hand and pull her in for a kiss.
I almost do, but then she breaks the connection, eyes blinking, a tremor on the surface of her wine betraying she’s unsettled and struggling to keep it together.
Chill, Noah. You have all dinner to get your point across. This is about romancing her, not jumping her bones.
