“Are you ready?” Dean asked, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder.
I blinked, eyes narrowing slightly at the leash in his hand. “Wait—are we bringing George?”
Dean looked down at the dog, then back at me. “Yeah. He always comes with me, I thought I’d mentioned that.”
I shook my head. He hadn’t. Of that I was certain. I’d read his blasted notes at least a dozen times.
At the sound of his name, George’s ears perked up—his tail wagging so hard his whole body rocked with it. He looked between me and Dean, eyes wide and eager, more ready than I’d ever be.
I hesitated—not because I didn’t like George. That much was obvious. It was something else. Something I couldn’t quite name.
Maybe because Dean bringing his dog made this feel less like a job, and more like a life I could have seen myself stepping into.
That thought unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
“It’s fine,” I muttered after a pause, lifting my chin. I’d never had a dog before. Even though George would never be mine, it could be fun to pretend for a week.
Dean opened the front door, stepping aside to let me through.
I walked out to the front yard, George trotting happily at my side as if we’d been doing this forever. Dean followed, the door clicking shut behind us.
My stomach twisted tighter with each step.
One week.
And then I’d be able to breathe again.
Twelve
The leather waswarm beneath my thighs as I buckled into the passenger seat of Dean’s Jeep.
George launched himself into the back like it was his second home, his tail thudding steadily against the seat like a metronome—thump, thump, thump—slow and steady, like the tick of a clock in a too-quiet room.
Dean slid into the driver’s seat beside me, closed the door, started the engine, then slipped the Jeep into reverse. One hand on the wheel, the other… reaching behind me to grip the top of my headrest.
It was a habit, I was sure—but his eyes met mine for a second before we started to move.
He felt it too.
The closeness.
The way his body angled toward mine as if an invisible line had been crossed.
I held my breath as we backed out of the driveway, and he turned back to the road a little too quickly.
His hand had been there for only a second, but I could still feel it. The shift in the air. The subtle trace of warmth that hadn’t fully faded.
“It should only take us about five hours,” he said, voice low and full of grit.
I nodded, eyes on the windshield, pretending my pulse hadn’t just tripped.
We pulled away from the house and headed east, and for a while, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t strained, either. Just… full. As though something was unfolding between us, something neither of us was ready for.
I turned to the window, watching palm trees give way to desert brush, then after a while… clusters of pines. That was the thing about California—the landscape never stayed the same for long.
And then reality hit.
I was in this. For a week.
