“I know. I know, sweetie. You stay safe. Gus is here. It’ll be the two of us and that’s fine.” Since he’d moved into the neighborhood a few months before, Gus spent most waking hours with her anyway, so it wouldn’t be a stretch. “I’d rather know you’re safe and alive than worry about you flying off the side of a cliff again. Stay with that young man. Okay?”
“Yes.” I looked at Micah, who was busy doing something in his kitchen.
“He tries anything, you remind him of the promise he made. Got it?”
“What promise?”
“Yep. All right. Better get cracking. Love you. Bye, sweetie.” Typical Gran, ignoring what she didn’t want to hear. She hung up, leaving me staring at the phone in one hand and scratching the dog with the other.
“Here.” Micah set a cup on an end table, took the phone from me and set it within my reach. “You hungry?”
I shook my head but then my belly rumbled and I gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to put you out.” As if I hadn’t put him out already.
“It’s fine.” He went to the kitchen and returned with a steaming bowl, which he handed to me. After putting a couple logs into the wood stove, he went and grabbed his own bowl, finally settling at a small wooden table to eat.
It would be polite to go and join him instead of staying here. But it was warm in front of the fire, with this plaid blanket thrown over my legs, the small one-eared dog on top off it, the big one pressing her head to my knee. Unbelievably cozy.
I wasn’t sure I could move.
6
Micah
Would she like the stew? Was venison something she enjoyed or was she one of those city people who couldn’t stand the taste of game? And shewasa city person. That was for sure. That slick haircut, with its sharp edges, the short, sparkly dress. That single shoe she’d had on before shucking it. The spike heel.
City girl.
I scraped the bottom of my bowl, trying to figure out what someone with fancier taste buds would think. Salty, thick, rich, meaty. I liked it. The dogs liked it. Good enough.
She was stuck with me now anyway, so she’d have to be okay with it.
Her eyes went to mine before looking back at her stew, reminding me of a little animal; a little scared, shy, skittish.
“How you feeling?”
She appeared to consider. “Amazingly well. Thanks.”
“Yeah? No aches? Anything hurt?”
She turned her head and stopped short with a grimace. “Everything?”
I went to the bathroom and the kitchen, then came back with a supersize bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take these.” I handed her four. I’d been in a couple accidents and I knew how bad that kind of shit hurt.
“That many?”
“You can do 800 for a couple days. Won’t kill you.” I knew this from experience.
She nodded, grabbed the pills, and was about to pop them into her mouth when I put a hand to hers to stop her. “Check ’em first.”
“Huh?”
“The pills. Make sure they’re what they’re supposed to be.”
It took her a second to get it, but when she did, her soft mouth hardened and she popped them without looking. “I trust you.”
I lifted my brows.
She reached for the water, which she slugged down before glaring at me. “You’d have to chase after me with a chainsaw, wearing a hockey mask at this point to get me to stop trusting you.”
