Thankfully, my loft isn’t far. After a potty break, I carry Purdy inside. April and the dogs are still out. The new addition is terrified, so I take her straight to my bedroom—the quietest room in the place—and set her gently on the bed.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, sitting on the floor so we’re eye level. “You’re safe now. This is home.”
She inches toward the pillows, still shaking but watching me with what might be the tiniest bit of trust.
I check my watch. April should be back any minute from walking the boys. I can’t wait to see her face when she meets Purdy.
Actually, scratch that. I can’t wait to see April, period. That’s my favorite part of every day—when she shows up at my door with her dimpled smile and warm brown eyes. Then she starts bossing me around about vitamins and all the things I’d definitely forgetwithout her.
I realize I left Purdy’s paperwork in the Jeep—all the medical stuff April will definitely want to review because she’s thorough like that.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Purdy, who’s now curled half under my pillows. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I jog back down to the parking lot, grab the folder from my passenger seat, and head back upstairs.
I’m almost to my door when I hear dogs barking, April’s laugh, and what sounds like a carnival in the hallway.
I round the corner and there she is, tangled in three leashes, hair slightly mussed, wearing my hoodie, and looking absolutely—wait. She’s wearing my hoodie.
My brain short-circuits because I really like the way it looks on her—oversized yet cozy and totally adorable.
She spins around, and the smile she gives me makes my heartsploot.
I remind myself that I live in the Friend Tundra.
And I have absolutely no idea how to get out.
5
APRIL
The walkback to Clark’s apartment was slower than usual—partially because the dogs were tired, but mostly because they kept stopping to sniff things with the intensity of crime scene investigators. To be fair, I didn’t coax them along because I was not looking forward to having to clean them up and return his hoodie.
When we finally made it back to the Old Mill Building, I was already mentally preparing for bath time. Moose alone could qualify for a drive-through car wash. I hosed the three of them down outside to get the worst of it off before we headed inside.
Now, in the middle of unlocking Clark’s door—juggling three leashes, my now-empty coffee cup, and my keys—the stairwell door opens behind me.
“Need some help there?”
I spin around, and there he is.
Clark Culpepper, in all his post-practice glory. His shaggy dark hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that suggests he ran his fingers through it a few times and calledit good. He’s wearing his standard outfit—Knights hoodie, well-worn jeans that fit him unfairly well, and that fresh evergreen scent that always makes me think of hiking trails and Christmas trees and home.
His eyes—sharp and focused during games but wonderfully soft right now—land on me. My heart gets its second workout of the day.
I instantly realize we’re matching, er, coordinated. His sweatshirt is red and mine is black, but the Knights’ emblem is identical. I didn’t ask if I could wear it and squinch my face.
Looking down, I say, “Oh, uh, sorry. I hope it’s okay. It was cooler out than I expected.”
The corner of his mouth lifts with a smile. “What’s mine is yours.”
If only that were true.
The dogs continue to serenade us and the rest of the building. I make a clicking noise for them to calm down as I tear off his hoodie to make it clear that I wasn’t wearing it because it felt like a hug. But my hands are full. He extends his arms to help.
“I’ve got it,” I manage, even though I don’t.
He steps closer, taking the coffee cup from my hand and reaching for the keys.
