Then I sat there for two full minutes because I’d forgotten what I was supposed to bring.
Not forgotten exactly. More like my brain had opened seventeen drawers at once and none of them had labels.
Phone. Wallet. Keys. Overnight bag.
Food?
No, Declan said dinner.
Wine?
Bad idea. Also I didn’t drink much during the season. Also showing up at my married coach’s house with a bottle of wine felt like committing a crime with gift wrap.
Tiny.
I looked at the passenger seat.
The ridiculous stuffed duck I’d bought at the pet store stared back at me with dead plastic eyes.
“Right,” I muttered. “Bribe.”
I grabbed the duck and my bag, locked the car, checked that I’d locked it because the beep hadn’t processed, then forced myself not to go back and pull the handle.
Once was enough.
Twice was okay.
Six times was me spiraling in a driveway.
I made it to the porch before Tiny started barking.
Not normal barking. Not a dog announcing a visitor. This was full-body betrayal that I had spent the entire day outside his reach and had some nerve showing up now like I hadn’t ruined his life.
The door opened before I knocked.
Declan stood there barefoot again, jeans low on his hips, black T-shirt stretched across his chest, beard trimmed but not too neat. He looked less like Coach Reid and more like the man whose bed I had slept in, which made my brain drop three files and misplace my name.
His gaze landed on the duck.
“What is that?”
“An offering.”
Tiny shoved around his leg and nearly took out the umbrella stand.
“Back,” Declan said.
Tiny did not go back. Tiny saw the duck and lost whatever small connection to civilization he’d been maintaining.
“Jesus.” I held it up. “You want this?”
Tiny’s tail hit the wall hard enough to rattle a framed photo.
Declan stepped aside. “Inside before he breaks the porch.”
I got one foot over the threshold before Tiny launched.
Not at me. At the duck.
