My life had become a math problem written by a sadist.
Tiny solved the paralysis by barking from inside with the force of an air horn.
I laughed once, because it startled out of me, then got out and walked up the side path.
Declan opened the door before I knocked. He had changed out of his rink clothes into black sweats and a white T-shirt, beard trimmed, hair still damp like he had showered not long ago. He looked calm.
That annoyed me for approximately half a second, until I saw the tension at the corners of his mouth.
“Hey,” he said.
I stepped inside. “Hey.”
Tiny hit me at thigh level, which was less a greeting than a weather event. I caught his giant head with both hands while he shoved himself into my legs like he had personally arranged my return.
“Hi, yes, I survived the cruel absence. I know. Nobody suffered like you.”
Tiny groaned and leaned harder.
Declan shut the door behind me. “He’s been watching the window since six.”
“That’s unhealthy.”
“He learned from you.”
I looked over Tiny’s head. “Cheap shot.”
“Accurate shot.”
The house smelled like garlic and something warm and rich. My stomach reacted before the rest of me did. I had eaten after the meeting because Declan had told me to, but eating a protein bar while sitting in my apartment staring at a list of employment attorneys did not count as dinner. It counted as self-preservation with crumbs.
“You cooked,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Like, cooked cooked.”
“There are degrees?”
“There’s food, and then there’s grown-up food. This smells like grown-up food.”
He watched me take off my jacket. “Chicken, pasta, vegetables.”
“Vegetables plural?”
“You’ll survive.”
“I’m under legal stress.”
“Your cells still require nutrients.”
I pointed at him. “This is why people think athletes need supervision.”
“You do.”
I should have made a joke. It was sitting right there. Easy. Automatic.
Instead, the word hit lower than humor.
