Score one for foresight.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You were just going to drive off, weren’t you?”
“I was going to go home. I don’t need a babysitter.” Owen won’t meet my eye. Red flag behavior, to be sure.
“You weren’t going to goanywheretoday?” I ask.
“I mean, not really.”
I narrow my eyes. “You weren’t planning to leave the house for even a single second?”
“I’m…” He lets out a wordless rumble of frustration. “Look, if I let you come, can I open my door?”
“Letme come?” I repeat. That came out differently than I intended.
“I—” Owen’s neck is suddenly flushed.
“You don’t get to tell me when and where I come. If you’re there, I’m coming. That’s in the contract.”
Owen covers his eyes with one hand. “Please stop saying the wordcome.”
I snap my mouth shut as my own cheeks warm. I’m a little surprised by the innuendo, especially since he seems more uncomfortable than amused by it.
“Just get in the truck,” he says.
I oblige, still somewhat overheated, and we ride in silence to Owen’s condo. Not comfortable silence. Not yet. Owen doesn’t say a word on the drive over, and I don’t push him. The morning has already been weird, and I’m not sure how to read this man.
In his driveway, Owen leaves the truck idling. “Be right back,” he says. He opens the back door before heading toward the house. Less than a minute later, an enormous, gangly-limbed dog comes rocketing out of the house and practically vaults into the front seat. I yelp as he plants one paw on my thigh and tries to stick his tongue in every orifice on my face.
“Shutout!” Owen bellows. “Back seat! Now!”
The dog ignores him and continues trying to stick his entire tongue up my nose. I splutter with laughter as Owen hauls the dog off me and manhandles him into the back seat. The dog seems delighted with this roughhousing, if his frantically wagging tail is anything to go by.
Eventually, Owen plops into the front seat. “Sorry about that.”
Shutout sticks his head between the seats and slurps my ear.
“Okay, okay, knock it off!” Owen uses one arm to block his dog’s aggressive affection. “He’s not used to company.”
I wipe the slobber off my cheek with the back of one hand. “Aw, he’s just friendly. Unlike his dad.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know I hit something.
“He isnotmy son. That shit where people talk about their pets as if they’re kids is so weird.” Owen backs out of the driveway.
“Don’t be mean. He’s a beautiful baby.” I reach back to scritch Shutout’s ears. I’m more of a cat person, but only because my lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to dog ownership.
“He’s, like, fifteen!” Owen argues. “He’s half my age!”
“Which means that in dog years, he’s old enough to be your dad,” I tease.
The slight smile on Owen’s mouth vanishes. “Yeah,” he bites out. Well, crap. I’ve hit a nerve with that one.
Shutout eventually stops trying to crawl into my skin and wanders over to the window so that he can stare through the glass and slobber.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Owen hooks his thumb toward the back seat. “Dog park.”
