“You are embarrassing,” I told him.
Jace’s tired face broke into a smile. “Tiny. My man.”
The dog shoved directly into him, nearly pushing him into the wall.
“Careful,” I said.
“I’m good.” Jace braced a hand on Tiny’s shoulder and scratched the heavy folds of his neck. “He’s just built like furniture.”
“He adored my wife for twelve hours and abandoned her as soon as we got here.”
Jace glanced up. “Your wife’s home?”
The question was normal. Casual.
“Yes,” I said. “Got in last night.”
“Cool.” He looked back at Tiny. “Sorry, buddy. Guess you’ve got options now.”
Tiny licked his wrist.
There was no reason for the small silence that followed. No reason for the way my attention snagged on Jace’s hand buried in my dog’s fur, on the easy patience he had for an animal taking up his path and covering his clothes in hair. No reason to compare it to the quiet house, to Olivia standing in our kitchen that morning scrolling emails while I packed my bag, both of us moving around each other with practiced care.
I tugged Tiny’s leash. “Let him go.”
Tiny did not.
Jace grinned. “He’s made a decision.”
“He’s bad at those.”
“Relatable.”
I should have walked away.
Instead, I said, “Video at two. Ten minutes. Just you.”
His fingers paused in Tiny’s fur. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“You keep saying that before extra video.”
“Because you keep asking.”
A faint smile, then he nodded. “I’ll be there.”
At home that night, Olivia made pasta because she said hotel food had ruined her relationship with vegetables.
We ate at the kitchen island instead of the dining table. Tiny lay between us like a rug with breathing problems. Olivia had changed into leggings and one of my old team sweatshirts, hair twisted into a clip, face clean of makeup. She looked familiar in a way that hurt if I let it.
“How’s Denver treating you?” she asked.
“Cold.”
“You always say places are cold.”
“Most places are.”
