“Three perfect years. I adopted him from Little Friends. I always wanted a Dachshund mix. They’re so cute and…spicy,” she says.
Like you.
But I keep that thought to myself.
“That seems to sum him up perfectly,” I say.
Skylar tips her head toward Zamboni. “And your perfect princess?”
I glance down at my loyal companion, sighing heavily as she settles deeper onto the soft grass by my feet. “She’s a rescue too. Which might be obvious based on the fact that she’s a weird mix. But I like it. Especially since she’s all mine.”
Skylar gives me a curious look. “What do you mean? All yours? Who else’s…oh, did you share her with an ex?”
“Thank fuck I didn’t.” Just the thought sends a surge of anger through me. I do my best to douse it. “I adopted her a couple of years ago, as I was getting divorced.” That word used to rankle. A reminder of my failure at marriage. Fine, Brittany was the one who left, but I still failed. But now, with some distance, I can see we were never going to last. Still sucks, though, that I once thought she was my forever. “Zamboni’s been my main girl since then.”
“My ex didn’t appreciate Simon,” Skylar says.
“I doubt mine would have appreciated Zamboni.” I pause, unsure if I want to go there. But she’s shared, so I say, “It ended for reasons…similar to yours.”
She gives a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s for the best,” I say.
“It is,” she adds. It’s a strange new bond between Skylar and me, but it’s there. Real and true.
And there is her dog, licking her cheek. Once again, I find myself jealous…of a dog.
He licks her chin again. And again. And with each successive lick, I stare more closely.
Is her chin getting a little…bluer?
“Skylar. Are you okay?”
“Why?” she asks, a frown digging into her forehead.
I study her face, trying to catch enough slivers of moonlight to see. “What happened to your chin?”
Her free hand flies to cover it up. “Nothing!”
Oh, it’s something all right, especially since she quickly adds, “I put on concealer. Foundation.”
I lift a brow. “I think Simon just licked it off.”
She winces, looking down before meeting my gaze with a touch of guilt. “He loves my makeup. And he loves lotion. And he loves licking me.”
There’s so much in that sentence I could respond to, but I start with, “How did you bruise your chin?”
For a long beat, a silent debate rages behind those eyes. “This morning,” she admits. “I might have fallen in the catio. Go ahead and laugh.”
But I don’t laugh. I beckon her closer, saying softly, “C’mere.”
I wait. I’m patient, and I hope she hears the sincerity in my tone.
She steps closer—tentatively, maybe, but still she does it. I reach out and run the pad of my thumb across her bruise.
Her breath seems to catch. The sound of it is a jolt of electricity down my spine.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
