When I stood, Reid was still watching.
I got into my car, shut the door, and sat there with both hands on the steering wheel while my phone buzzed and buzzed in the cup holder.
For the first time all day, I didn’t pick it up.
Across the lot, Declan Reid loaded his enormous dog into the back of his SUV. He didn’t look back before he drove away.
I did.
And then I set an alarm for eight-ten tomorrow morning.
Then eight.
Then seven-fifty-five.
After a second, I added one more for seven-thirty, labeled it don’t screw this up, and hated how badly I wanted to be on time.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
DECLAN
Tiny was on the couch again.
Not half on it. Not testing boundaries with one paw like an animal capable of shame. All one hundred and sixty pounds of him sprawled across the cushions, head sunk into the throw pillow Olivia had bought during a weekend in Santa Fe three years ago, eyes closed as if he had endured a long day at the office.
“Get down,” I said.
Tiny opened one eye.
I pointed at the floor. “You heard me.”
He sighed. It was a dramatic sound, wet and exhausted, like I’d asked him to refinance the house.
I went back to the kitchen island, where my laptop was open between a stack of player reports and a plate of chicken that had gone lukewarm while I watched defensive-zone clips. The rice had clumped together. The broccoli tasted like the container it came in. I ate it anyway because cooking for one person after a twelve-hour day felt like pretending.
The house was quiet in the way it had become quiet lately.
Not empty. There were shoes by the door, Olivia’s blue raincoat still hanging in the mudroom from her last trip home, framed photos on the shelves, a half-burned candle on the coffee table she’d told me smelled like cedar and fig. There were signs of a life here.
Just not much living.
The place was too big for one man and a dog who ignored furniture rules. Too polished in the rooms nobody used. Too clean except for the places Tiny shed, which was everywhere. I had moved in six weeks ago, and most of my books were still in boxes in the office because I kept meaning to put up shelves and kept finding film to watch instead.
On the screen, Milo Brooks turned a puck over at the blue line for the third time in two games.
I made a note.
Brooks: Skilled hands. Rush decisions under pressure. Needs simpler first option.
Tiny snored.
“You’re contributing nothing,” I told him.
His tail thumped once without him opening his eyes.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Olivia.
