Page 54 of Bi-Partisan

“That must have been hard.”

“It’s unfortunately part of my job to have these difficult conversations with pet parents from time to time, and yes, they’re difficult, but usually I’m okay. But this girl is barely out of college. She’s had this cat for as long as she can remember. Also according to Sophie, she was a military kid—” He lets out a frustrated sigh and stares at a spot past my head. “I feel like maybe if I were better at my job, I wouldn’t be as affected by this.”

“You identified with her a little. It’s understandable, and that doesn’t mean you’re bad at your job. It means you’re human.” I lift a hand to cup his cheek to bring his attention to me and barely stop myself from breaking into an inappropriate smile when he leans into the touch. “You’re a compassionate and empathetic person. It’s what makes you good at your job. If anything, I’d be worried about the day when something like this doesn’t affect you at all.”

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. “You’re right.”

“I know,” I say lightly, earning a huffed laugh. I brush my thumb along his cheekbone, then pull him into another hug.

Within seconds, he’s melting against me with a small exhale of relief. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome,” I mumble back. Then, without really thinking, I turn my head and press a kiss to the side of his head.

He lets out a soft, little sound and buries his face in my neck. “Sorry if I ruined your plans.”

“You didn’t. Like I said, I was just going to be eating lasagna by myself and continue watching West Wing for the millionth time. Being here for you is much more important and a better way to spend my time.”

“We could still do that, if you wanted,” he suggests before pulling back enough to look at me.

“I’d love that. Although, we could watch something else, if you’d prefer,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I like West Wing. What episode are you on?”

“The turkey pardoning.”

“I love that episode. My mom used to put it on every Thanksgiving while she was cooking.”

I chuckle. “I’ll get the lasagna started if you want to go queue it up?”

He nods, then slowly untangles himself from our embrace. “Baking sheets are in the bottom cabinet next to the stove.”

“Thanks, darlin’.”

I get out two baking sheets, one for the lasagna tray and one for the garlic bread, and set them up so they’re ready to go when it’s time. Then, I pull the wine bottle—one with a screw top—out of the bag and open it. Also, thankfully, I remember where Adrian keeps his wine glasses from the last time I was here, so I pull out two glasses with a Boordy Winery logo etched on the side. At his birthday, I’d asked about the winery, which apparently he and Casey spent at least a few weekends at during their time at Towson—because of course they went to wineries while the rest of their peers went to frat parties and tailgated at football games. That, of course, led to half a dozen stories about college Adrian, which I think were supposed to be embarrassing but only endeared him more to me.

I grab the two glasses in one hand, and the bottle in the other, and head out to the living room to find the episode already pulled up on the screen.

“You brought wine?” he asks as I set the bottle and glasses down.

I sit and start to pour us each a glass. “I wasn’t sure what kind of bad day at work you were having. It’s a riesling, which doesn’t really go with lasagna, but I know you like it.”

He smiles softly and takes the wine from my outstretched hand. “Thank you, I do. But doesn’t wine set off your reflux?”

“So does tomato sauce, so I’m just playing fast and loose with my ability to sleep tonight,” I joke.

As I take a sip, I see him leveling me with an unamused and concerned look.

I soften and set the glass on the coffee table. “I’m just joking, darlin’. I already took a preventative antacid, don’t worry.”

My assurance only seems to smooth out the worried crease between his eyebrows a little, though.

The oven beeps, and I go to stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it,” he says, resting a hand on my leg to prevent me from moving. “How long does it need to go in for?”

“About forty minutes, but set the timer for thirty-five minutes so we can put the garlic bread in at the end,” I instruct.

With a nod, he stands, and I settle into the couch. I sit on the end so I can lean on the arm, then stretch my arm along the back of the couch. Because the AC is a little chilly, I pull a woven throw blanket off the back of the couch and drape it on my lap. Almost instantly, Joseph lifts his head from where he was asleep on the cat tree, then jumps down and scampers over. The cat jumps into my lap just as Adrian comes back from the kitchen.

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