“It sounds fun.” His mouth stretches in a huge grin. “You can be our tour guide when we go.”
I frown, unsure of his meaning. The last thing I want to do is speculate on whether he wants me to go on vacation with him and Violet.
He nudges me. “I’m only teasing, Grill Sergeant .”
I gasp, a hand to my chest. I haven’t heard that horrible nickname since we were kids. “Logan Maddox! No, you did not!”
He cocks a hip, smirking. “You think I’d forget the best nickname of all time?”
“The hell it was!”
“Are you kidding? You made your braces a fashion show every day, remember? It was your own personal middle finger to all the idiots who teased you.” His deep chuckle rumbles through my body. “I personally thought it was brilliant. I’ve never seen so many colors on a person’s teeth in my life. You started a trend that first time you strutted into class and flashed those purple and hot pink choppers at us, daring us to make a comment.”
“I. Did. Not. Strut!”
“Oh, yes, you did.” His grin turns into a leer as he edges closer. “And you made sure we all saw you, too.”
“Don’t make me throw that pie in the trash.” I swat his chest. “How’s the dinner coming along? Any chance we get to eat before bedtime?”
“These potatoes are nearly done, and I’m about to put the steaks on now.” He points over his shoulder toward the kitchen.“I just need to put the salad together and we’ll be set. Would you like some wine?”
“Oh yeah. I can handle the salad while I grab a glass. Can I get you a beer?”
“Sure.” He points the tongs toward Violet who’s still throwing for Cookie. “I’ll keep an eye on the troublemakers.”
I snort. “You got the tougher job. Be back in a minute.”
The salad comes together quickly. Logan has everything washed and arranged across the expansive granite island. I've always admired this kitchen, the way it flows seamlessly into the other first-floor rooms. The renovations Logan completed before moving in elevated it even further with new flooring, this beautiful island, upgraded appliances, and striking fixtures.
It's a chef's paradise, really, and practically light-years beyond my cramped little kitchen.
Within minutes, I step back outside, his beer in one hand, a glass of Riesling in the other.
“The salad’s ready. How’s everything else?”
“Steaks will be done in five minutes or so.” He lifts his chin toward Violet and Cookie, who are chasing each other around the yard. “And those two are up to no good.”
I grin as Cookie nudges Violet’s leg and takes off running with Violet right behind her. It’s an obvious game of tag, and both giggle as they play. It completely warms my heart.
“Can I ask you something?” The question's been sitting with me, but I finally give in to curiosity.
“Sure,” Logan replies, lifting his beer for a drink.
“You mentioned therapy helping before. Violet seems okay most of the time, but have you looked into finding someone for her here?”
“We both went through therapy in Denver. It helped a lot. And yeah, I need to find someone here. It's on my to-do list.”
“That's good.” I hesitate, then continue. “I was reading about how children process grief, and everything I found said it comes in waves. It's not linear.”
“That's exactly right.” Logan turns to look at me directly. “Some days she's herself, happy and energetic. Other days she wakes up sobbing for her mom.”
My heart clenches. “Does that still happen often?”
“Only once recently, on our first night here. She’s been great since.” He nods toward where Violet and Cookie are playing. “Pretty sure your spoiled corgi deserves the credit for that.”
“I was literally just thinking that. I'll never forget how determined Cookie was that morning to get outside to Violet. It was like she instinctively knew the little girl on our front porch needed her, and I had no clue Violet was even out there.” I shake my head at the memory. “The way Cookie wraps herself around Violet, it's almost protective. Comforting. Sometimes animals just know things on a level we can't explain.”
“I guess they do.” He bumps my hip with his. “Did you ever picture Cookie as a therapy dog?”
