by Lili Valente
At the magic word—outside—Luke lets out a happy bark and bounds joyfully from the room, ready for another morning of christening the grass and terrorizing the garden slugs.
“I’ll get the coffee started, baby,” Tristan says. “You want oatmeal, too?”
I pause, leaning against the doorway, taking a moment to soak in the everyday wonderful of waking up with my favorite person, of having him call me baby, of knowing I’ll come back from collecting the morning dog doo and breakfast and coffee will be waiting for me because my boyfriend loves feeding me and ensuring I’m caffeinated.
It’s enough to make a girl hope the hardware store’s door delivery gets delayed another week, and another, and another…
“Yes, please,” I say, my heart filling as I watch Tristan sit up, the early morning sun catching the hair on his arms and making it shine. God, he’s beautiful. And mine. It still blows my mind. “Oatmeal sounds great.”
His lips curve into a crooked grin. “How do you make the word oatmeal sound so sexy?”
“Practice,” I say, with a wink, making him laugh. “See you in ten for that oatmeal date, mister.”
“I’ll have it waiting, gorgeous.”
His laughter follows me down the hall and into the sunroom, where Luke is waiting by the door, his tail wagging fast.
“Okay, but no eating the slugs this time, you could catch something,” I say as I unlock the deadbolt and let him out, stepping into the only slightly cool morning air. It’s been such a long, toasty autumn, but Indian Summer can’t last much longer.
Halloween is tonight, for goodness sake.
Stepping into the sandals I’ve taken to leaving on the stoop, I grab a biodegradable bag from the box on the shelves near the door and follow Luke out into the damp grass. It’s another perfectly lovely morning, like every morning I’ve woken up in this house, with this man, in this new version of my life that is so exactly what I dreamed about that a part of me still worries it will vanish in the next blink and I’ll wake up alone in my little apartment.
If it weren’t for our God-awful neighbors, Tristan and I would be floating through the world in our own rosy, dreamy, couple bubble. But between Kim’s daily texts to Tristan, insisting they have a private meeting to discuss mysterious “important” things she needs to communicate, and Bear’s early morning “accidental” meetings with me, Kim and Bear are doing their best to intrude upon our world built for two.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Bear’s deep voice calls out cheerily from the other side of the fence, “Hey, there, neighbor! Happy Halloween.”
“Happy Halloween.” I force a smile as Luke gambols around the yard, taking his sweet time doing his business, and run a hand through my sleep-rumpled hair.
If Bear were the type to notice bedhead, I would feel self-conscious. But he’s always been oblivious to things like that, as well as to non-verbal cues that a girl would enjoy a little more space and a little less neighborly interaction with her ex-boyfriend.
“Are you and Tristan going to the party at the Raven tonight?” Bear plucks an orange from the tree, though surely he must have enough oranges to start his own farm-to-table juice stand by this point. “Sounds like it’s going to be good times. Live band, then a DJ. Open bar and mandatory costumes for all.”
“We don’t have any set plans that I know of,” I lie, not wanting to risk our Halloween agenda getting back to Kim.
I have no idea if Bear realizes that Kim has been texting her ex at least once or twice a day, but he clearly seems eager to reestablish some sort of relationship between the two of us. I can’t tell if he just wants to be friends or something more—Bear is a hard read for things like that—but, either way, I wish he would give me some space. I’ll always have fond memories of our time together, but I’d like to focus on the future right now, not the past.
“You should check it out then,” he says. “I think there are still tickets available and I know you love an excuse to get dressed up. Remember that zombie cheerleader costume from sophomore year? That was awesome. You rocked that one hard.”
“Thanks,” I say, silently willing Luke to get down to business so I can go inside and grab a lightning-fast shower and a leisurely breakfast—in that order. “I do have a costume,” I confess as Bear lingers on his ladder, though by now his basket is almost full. “I’m going as Ursula from The Little Mermaid and Luke is going to be my evil minion, the electric eel.”
Bear laughs. “Sweet! I always thought she was kind of hot, you know? I mean, call me crazy, but a purple lady in a skin-tight leather outfit with tentacles…” He waggles his bushy brows. “Sign me up.”
I nod awkwardly, not sure how to respond, but thankfully Luke saves the day by assuming the squat position.
“All right then, have a good one. Hope we see you around,” Bear says, his upper lip curling ever-so-slightly as he backs down the ladder, confirming my suspicion that he’s grossed-out by dog poo.
Which is hysterical in a guy who positions himself as an extreme adventurer, mountain man kind of person. Surely he’s faced down more formidable sights than a golden retriever taking a discreet crap in his own yard?
“Have a good one,” I echo as Bear disappears. I cross to the corner of the yard, collect Luke’s offering, and am about to hurry back inside when hushed whispers on the other side of the fence catch my attention.
Brow furrowed, I lean closer, ears straining, but I can only make out a few words. Bear whispering “patience” and then a feminine voice muttering something about “running out of time” in a frustrated tone. I’m not one-hundred percent sure, but that second voice sounds a heck of a lot like Kim’s…
What in the world could she be running out of time for?
She and Bear are living happily ever after and headed back to the land Down Under after the New Year… Right?
So why is she out here lurking in the bushes on the other side of the fence, waiting to have a whispered chat with Bear as soon as he’s done sticking his unwanted nose into my morning?
It’s all smells very, very fishy. So fishy, in fact, that my stomach feels unsettled for reasons that have nothing to do with my spitty dog toes or scooping doggie doo. I haven’t been caught in the crosshairs of Kim’s agenda for years, but I remember how miserable it is to be swept up in her drama. I want no part of that. I just want to enjoy my time with Tristan, relish every second of falling in love with him, and ignore the outside world.
But experience has taught me to ignore Kim at my own peril.
I ponder the problem as I shower, but by the time I’ve washed away the dog spit and dressed in jeans, a red tee, and a matching gingham-checkered shirt that the new parrot rescue seems to find comforting, I’m no closer to an answer. But I do know this—I don’t want to worry Tristan until I know more. Kim’s already driving him crazy with her too-flirty-for-just-friends texts. I don’t want to put more irritation on his plate unless I have a better idea of what’s going on.
More importantly, I don’t want to help Kim occupy any more of his headspace. I prefer to be the one dominating that arena—thank you very much.
“Berries and jam or honey and nuts?” Tristan asks as I breeze into the kitchen. “Take your pick; I put both by your bowl. And do you want a three cheese sandwich or tofu salad and arugula on wheat for lunch? My treat, and I’m packing.”
“You certainly are.” I stop behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist as he pulls the bread out of the cabinet. “Have I told you how much I’m enjoying our sleepovers, lately?”
He turns to me, pulling me closer. “Maybe, but I’d love to hear it again.” His brow knits. “Or maybe it would be better if you show me…”
I lean into him with a smile, relishing the feel of his body pressed close to mine. “We only have twenty minutes before we have to leave for work.”
“Plenty of time, assuming you don’t mind eating your oatmeal on the road.”
“Road oatmeal works,” I say, moaning into his mouth
as he bends low, capturing my lips for a long, lingering kiss. “But I don’t want to interrupt your sandwich making.”
“Fuck sandwich making,” he says, picking me up, making me giggle as I wrap my legs around his waist.
“No, fuck me, please,” I murmur as he carries me back toward the bedroom.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says, eyes darkening. And then he shuts the door and proves he’s a man of his word, banishing every worry from my mind.
Chapter 17
Tristan
Animals get every bit as excited—and freaked out—around the holidays as people do. Maybe they can feel the excitement building in their human caretakers as the leaves start to change and a new year approaches. Or maybe it’s something instinctual tied to cooling temperatures. But the madness usually starts around Halloween and continues through the end of January, when the sun finally starts to return.
This year is no different.
Zoey and I arrive at the shelter to find the dogs howling at a raccoon that somehow broke into the kennel and is reaching through the bars to steal the dog food left on the floor after last night’s feeding. The cats in the kennel next door are agitated by the dogs’ racket, and our new parrot resident is out of his cage and stalking back and forth on the ceiling beam above the office, sneezing repeatedly.
“Keep Luke here. I’ll get rid of the raccoon,” I say as Zoey grabs Luke’s collar and holds on tight.
“Be careful!” she calls after me. “The raccoons around here are mean as spit.”
“I know, I will,” I assure her, touched by the worry in her voice. But I grew up on a farm and have more than my share of experience with cranky raccoons.
Grabbing the broom from the supply closet, I shoo the hissing and spitting creature back out into the woods behind the shelter, soothe and feed the dogs, and let them and Luke out into the fenced-in dog run for some exercise. On my way to do the same soothe-and-feed routine for the cats, I swing into the office to see Zoey standing on her desk, her outstretched hand filled with what looks like chunks of banana as she coos at the parrot now swaggering around in circles on the light fixture.
“Looks like you’re getting closer,” I say softly. The parrot sneezes violently in quick succession in response, and I cross my arms over my chest with a sigh. “I guess I need to call the vet in Santa Rosa, the one who specializes in birds. Dr. Prest couldn’t find anything wrong with the Captain yesterday, but if he’s still sneezing this much, we should probably get a second opinion.”
“Maybe not.” Zoey lifts her hand higher, closer to the skittish bird. “I was doing some reading yesterday while you were out cleaning the pens. Turns out parrots imitate a lot of their primary human’s behavior, not just words or phrases. And the reason Captain’s owner had to give him up was that she found out she was allergic to the dander in his feathers. Allergies can lead to a lot of sneezing, so…”
I hum appreciatively as the dots connect. “He’s not sick; he’s just being a parrot. You should be a pet detective.”
Zoey glances over her shoulder, eyes sparkling as she laughs. “Oh my God, I loathe that movie. It’s so unspeakably awful in every way.”
“That’s why they should remake it as a documentary, starring you, the savvy animal-whispering pet detective who gets behind the sneeze,” I tease.
“Well, so far I’m not getting far with the Captain with my whispers. Or my banana,” she says, lowering her arm with a sigh. “You have any other ideas? Because I really don’t want to be walking back and forth underneath him all day, waiting for the bomb to drop, so to speak.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to remember if there was anything pertinent in the Captain’s file that might lead to his recapture, but the details are fuzzy. “Let me grab his folder and see if I can find anything that might help—maybe a favorite food or something.”
“Perfect. In the meantime, I’ll go feed and comfort the cats.” Zoey pops the banana chunks into her mouth, brushes her palm on her delicious, jean-clad bottom, and then hops down off the desk. She’s clearly on a mission, but as she passes by, I can’t help wrapping an arm around her waist and leaning down to steal a quick kiss.
“What was that for?” she asks, grinning against my lips.
“Nothing, just happy you’re here.”
Her smile widens. “I’m happy you’re here, too.”
“Loose lips sink ships!” the Captain screeches from overhead, making Zoey and I laugh. “Loose lips sink ships!”
“That one’s just full of surprises,” she says, patting my chest. “Good luck.”
I head into my old office to flip through the stack of files in the inbox on the edge of Zoey’s desk—the ones Violet hasn’t gotten around to scanning into our database just yet. I find the Captain’s, but before I can flip it open my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I tug it out to see a text from Deacon—Cow Watch Daily Update: Dad thinks she’s getting close and wants to make sure you’re keeping your phone handy. He won’t admit it, but I can tell he’s nervous about handling the birth without you here.
Brow furrowing, I text back—Why? I mean, I know it’s been a while since we had livestock on the property, but Dad helped birth calves all the time when we were growing up.
A beat later, Deacon responds—Not twins. And those were working cows, not a pet like Moo-donna. The Old Man’s gone soft on her, bro. I swear, he’s nearly as worried as he was when Emma went into labor.
I grin. Gotcha. Well, let the old softie know I plan on being there for the birth—no matter what time of day or night. Which reminds me, what time are you getting to the party tonight?
Deacon assures me he’ll be at the costume party at our family friend’s house at seven on the dot, in time to catch the trick-or-treating action in the neighborhood. I asked the twins to come, too, but they’re hitting a haunted house in Rohnert Park and going to a bonfire at a friend’s house later. They’re too busy to hang out with their lame old man.
I sink into the armchair in the corner of the office with the file in my lap, wondering if I should call Deacon and assure him with something more personal than a text that the boys are thrilled to have him home. But before I can decide, my brother shoots over—Gotta run. Dylan needs me to help take a load of pumpkins over to the community center. See you tonight.
I send him a thumbs-up and dig into the file, comforted by the fact that Deacon is going to be spending the morning with Dylan. Dylan has his cranky moments, but beneath his tough-guy act, he’s got a damned good heart. He’ll cheer Deacon up and keep our oldest brother from feeling bummed by empty nest syndrome.
“Find anything?” Zoey appears in the doorway, a fluffy white Persian in her arms.
“Not yet. I got sidetracked by the daily cow watch text.” I lift my gaze from the folder, arching a pointed brow at Honey-Mew-Mew. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? One look at that killer feline and the Captain might never come down.”
Zoey hums beneath her breath. “True, but poor Honey was so stressed out she was about to lick her own tail off. She told me she needed dedicated snuggle time and maybe some tuna from my apartment.”
Her apartment…
I don’t like that combination of words, but despite hardware store incompetence and repeatedly delayed deliveries from their supplier, her door will eventually be fixed. And then she’ll move out of my house and out of my bed, only to return for the occasional date night sleepover.
The thought is…vile.
Zoey laughs. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, flipping the file closed.
“You looked like you just swallowed something awful.”
I force a smile. “Worse, I figured out how we’re going to get Captain off the light fixture. It involves dancing.”
Zoey snorts. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. His previous owner said he loves nothing more than a disco groove session followed by raisins and a nap.”
“Oh my. Disco…�
� Zoey grins wickedly. “I can’t wait to see this, baby. I know how much you love to fast dance.”
I shoot a mock-glare her way and point to where her purse slouches on her desk. “Pull up Saturday Night Fever. I know you’ve got the soundtrack.”
Zoey giggles. “I do! And I’m not even a bit ashamed of it. Disco music is happy music. Let me put Honey in the playroom, and I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not watching me fast dance,” I call after her as she scurries away.
“Oh, yes, I am,” she calls back. “And I’m going to film it for the shelter social media page! Show Sonoma County how far we’re willing to go to help our animals!”
“Not happening, Childers. Not a chance,” I insist, but I know I won’t be able to say no to her. I lift my gaze to the Captain. “Come on, buddy. Come down and spare us both the dance party, okay?”
“Dancing Queen,” the parrot crows, clearly not on my side. “Dancing Queen!”
“Excellent choice, Captain. And I just happen to have it on one of my playlists.” Zoey claps her hands as she hurries back into the room, practically bouncing with excitement. “Now, this is the way to start a Friday!” Wagging her fingers up and down in what I vaguely recognize as a disco move from a movie I watched years ago, Zoey shimmies over to her purse and grabs her phone.
And God help me, though I hate any kind of dancing but slow-dancing like Luke hates being separated from Zoey’s socks, her excitement is contagious. By the first trill of the piano keys, I’m grinning. And by the time the singers begin cooing about “digging the dancing queen,” I’m out on the dance floor—the empty space between the desk and Luke’s bed—getting my groove on.
