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“Clint isn’t so different from Renny’s other little projects. Older, maybe.”

“We all get older. Except Landy. He’s too uptight to age.”

I smile, and this time I let it linger for a while.

The storm that’s been in the air arrives in stages.

Wind moves through the trees. Then the rain starts, soft at first, ticking against the high windows in the theater room. By the time I bring my second cup of tea downstairs, it has become a proper summer storm, heavy and warm and dramatic enough that Renny would have opened a bottle of red wine and settled on the porch.

I set the tea on the low table beside my laptop.

Baxter is already occupying the middle cushion on the couch. Barret lies on the rug, chin on his paws, eyes lifted toward me with the solemn concern that’s become his standard expression these days.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

Barret sighs.

“Oh hush.”

The theater room has become my bedroom by accident, which seems to be how most life changes happen. One night on the couch. Then another. Then a pillow migrates from upstairs and never returns. Now the dogs come here at bedtime without waiting for me to pretend it’s even a decision.

I sit back on the couch and listen to the rain.

The laptop waits. Closed. Accusing.

I should answer email. I should look at estate documents or research roofing estimates or do literally anything besides what I’m about to do.

I close my eyes. It doesn’t help.

Clint appears behind them immediately. Black shirt open. Skin catching light. His hand at his waistband.

“Stop it,” I say.

Baxter lifts his head.

“Not you. You’re a good boy.”

The dogs continue to look at me.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s only research.”

Rain hits the windows harder. Thunder mutters somewhere in the distance.

I reach for my tea and take a sip. Too hot, but good.

The truth is that I could ask Reggie to look into Clint’s online presence. Or ask Don for the safe highlights. Either would be appropriate.

I move my teacup an inch to the left. Straighten the laptop on the table.

The storm rolls closer. The lights flicker once.

For one horrible second, I think of Renny. The impossible idea of him somewhere in the room, amused and appalled, watching me sit here with a laptop and bad thoughts.

Renny had a complicated relationship with desire—which is what this looks like, though not what it is. He loved it as long as it belonged to other people. Mine, he preferred managed. Loyal, and with flattering light.

I rub both hands over my face.

“No,” I say aloud.