Page 329 of Wild Card 13

Dottie’s bowls were already lined up in the mudroom. Her leashhung on the hook beside my keys, which was ridiculous since I did not own a dog and had no real claim to her. Except, Dottie had moved into my life with the quiet entitlement of an old woman who had opinions about furniture. There was a towel by the door with paw prints on it, a basket of toys in the corner of the living room, and a dog bed she mostly ignored because she preferred any surface that was either inconvenient or still warm from a human body.

Lucy’s things were quieter. A paperback facedown on the side table with a receipt tucked in as a bookmark. A green glasses case beside the lamp. Her sketch pad on the kitchen counter, pencil balanced across the top like she had set it down for one second and then been dragged away by the rest of her life. A folded pair of sleep shorts and a soft tank top sat in the guest room dresser, although we both knew the guest room was now mostly where her clean laundry went when neither one of us was ready to talk about why she had a drawer.

I was already at the door when Lucy pulled up. She looked at me through the rain. Her curls were tied up in a messy knot, but several pieces had escaped around her face. Her emerald glasses were dotted with rain almost as soon as she stepped out of the truck. She was still in her work clothes, tailored pants and a blouse mostly hidden beneath a light jacket, and she had a tote bag over one shoulder, an overnight bag in one hand, and Dottie’s leash wrapped around her wrist.

She looked like every version of the future I had ever been too scared to imagine.

I jogged down the porch steps.

“You’re going to get soaked,” she called.

“Yeah, Shortcake. That seems to be the situation.”

Her mouth twitched.

I took the overnight bag from her first. Then the tote. Then Dottie’s leash, although Dottie immediately decided I was too slow and hauled herself toward the porch like she owned the place, ears flopping, paws splashing through every puddle she could reach.

“Dottie,” Lucy said, scandalized. “There was a path.”

“She’s an artist,” I said. “The mud is her medium.”

“She is a menace.”

“She’s our menace,” I teased and took Lucy’s hand, tugging her up the steps.

Inside, the house swallowed us in warmth. The fire popped in the living room. Rain hammered the roof. Dottie shook herself before either of us could stop her, spraying water across the mudroom wall, my jeans, Lucy’s shoes, and probably several structural elements of the house.

Lucy closed her eyes.

I looked down at the dog. “You are not sorry.”

Dottie sneezed.

“Not even a little,” Lucy chuckled.

I crouched with the towel and started drying Dottie’s paws because somehow that had become my life. Professional athlete. Grown man. Owner of one extremely expensive couch. Servant to a damp dog with no shame.

The rain made the whole room smell like wet wood and lake water. Lucy’s overnight bag sat beside the door. Her tote had tipped against the bench, and I could see the corner of a folder sticking out beside one of Dottie’s toys.

I got Dottie’s last paw mostly clean. She immediately walked around me and flopped onto the rug with the deep sigh of someone who had survived a historical tragedy.

Lucy peeled off her jacket. Her blouse clung a little at the shoulders from the rain, and I made myself look at her face because I was a gentleman, technically, and because when Lucy looked at me like that, it was very easy to forget the entire concept of restraint.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Starving.”

“I was going to make dinner.”

I stood, hung the towel over the hook, and reached for her. She came without hesitation. Her hands slid around my waist, and she tipped her face up. I pushed her glasses carefully onto the top of her head before I kissed her because I had learned that lesson the hard way. Once. Maybe twice.

“Hi,” I said against her mouth.

“Hi.”

“You’re wet.”

“Romantic.” She rolled her eyes.