“Would you like a sandwich, too?” she asks, cutting through my thoughts. “Or something else? I may not be as good as your sister, but I quite enjoy cooking.”
“You don’t have to. Dylan dropped off some lasagna for me this morning. I’ll reheat it once I get these two to bed.”
“Okay.” She shifts her attention back to the pan, lifting the sandwich to check the color, a silence falling between us.
Despite Jemmy’s incessant babbling and singing as he colors, the quiet feels heavy.
“Listen,” I begin at the same time as Rowan says, “I’m not?—”
We both stop short.
“You go first,” I tell her.
She nods, checking the grilled cheese and flipping it. “I just wanted to say I’m usually better at controlling the dogs I walk. Bark Twain hasn’t?—”
“Bark Twain?” I ask, confused.
She looks at me. “The dog I was walking.”
I arch a brow, folding my arms in front of my chest. “The dog’s name is Bark Twain?”
She grins, and her smile does something to me.
Something I can’t quite explain.
“I’m quite proud of that one. I was there when he was brought in so I got to name him, along with a few others.”
“And what did you name them?”
This has absolutely nothing to do with her ability to take care of my kids, but it’s like some other force is at play, encouraging me to engage with this woman when I’ve spent the past year distancing myself from everyone.
“Bilbo Waggins is one, naturally.”
I chuckle. “Naturally.”
“There’s also Sherlock Bones and Winnie the Pooch.”
“I’m catching a theme here.”
“I love books,” she explains somewhat sheepishly. “Oh, and there’s also Dogberry. He’s named after?—”
“The constable fromMuch Ado About Nothing.”
She gives a low whistle. “I’m impressed.”
“What can I say? I have a knack for remembering useless information.”
She holds my gaze for a beat, then quickly looks away, checking on the grilled cheese once more.
“Since they’re stuck in the shelter, they spend most of their days in a cramped space. So when Bark Twain got the chance to stretch his legs, he was like,freedom!” she explains, doing her best impression of Mel Gibson inBraveheart. Then she scrunches her nose. “Maybe I should have named him William Woof-lace instead.”
I chuckle again, this time even louder than before.
Presley looks up from her sketchpad, her eyes finding mine. I can feel her confusion from across the room. She hasn’t heard me laugh like this in ages.
“It’s not your fault. Or Bark Twain’s,” I say, glancing back at Rowan. “I had a rough morning around here.That spilled coffee sort of tipped me over the edge. I was an ass and you didn’t deserve that, so I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
