George waited for Andrew Blane to show up for an hour and a half that evening. She would probably have stayed even longer if the animals hadn’t needed her. That and she’d caught up on every bit of paperwork she could find, so no more excuses. No reason to stay at the clinic.
As she locked up and made her way to her car alone, she realized two things—both pathetic. One, she’d been looking forward to seeing the big man again. And two, his absence made her feel jilted, which was patently ridiculous.
Great. I need to feel needed. And then, when I’m not needed… Lord, did she truly have no life at all?
As she pulled into her driveway, rather than continue thinking about Andrew Blane, she decided to concentrate on home. Home, where things didn’t go smoothly unless she was there.
Which wasn’t entirely true, either.
Her place was all moving parts. No, not moving parts, but bits and pieces that, together, made up an ecosystem. Almost self-contained, her garden depended on three things from the outside: sunlight, rain, and George.
She liked that dependence. She liked being needed.
When she found a bright-purple sticky note stuck to her front door, she initially assumed it was some erroneous delivery—because no one ever visited.
She read it. Come over for dinner! I got wine! ;) Something inside her did a strange, unexpected flip-flop.
George rushed guiltily through feeding the animals. She should have watered the garden too, since the leaves were yellowing and there was no hint of rain on the horizon, but who had time when you had a dinner invite stuck to your door? Out back, she locked the chickens up, spared thirty seconds for Leonard’s belly rub, and paused on the steps.
Laughter drifted over the other side of the fence and then words. “Hey, George!”
“Gabe?”
“Yeah! Mom says you might come over for dinner.”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
“Good! I wanna show you my egg baby. Maybe you can tell Mom to get me a puppy.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I can hear you, you know!” Jessie yelled from somewhere inside her house.
“I’ll be right over!” George said in return. “Need me to bring anything?”
“No. I’m defrosting a bunch of crap from the store. That’s as fancy as we get around here.”
George smiled.
* * *
“’Nother one, mate?” the British bartender asked, and Clay nodded. Nodding and drinking—about all he’d done for the past couple of hours. Or… He looked around for a clock.
“Time is it?” he asked.
“Half eight.”
“Seriously? Shit. Cancel that. What do I owe you?”
“Sure you don’t want something to eat?” The guy’s eyes narrowed strangely on him, and Clay had a moment of clarity—I must be drunk.
“Nah. Thanks.”
“Here,” the guy said, sliding his tab onto the bar in front of him. Jesus, this place was cheap. He’d been drinking for hours, and the check was just around twenty bucks. He threw a couple of bills onto the bar and got off the stool, catching his foot in one of the legs before righting it. Too loud. Clumsy.
“You all right?”
“Good.”
