Page 24 of Love You Too

“And clean.” She bends down and tries to dry him with the towel, but he scoots out of her grasp and tries to hide behind my legs. “Liked the shower but doesnotlike the towel.” She shrugs and tosses the towel onto a wood bench by the front door. My hands unclench and my shoulders relax.

“So you and he…” It’s making my way through my thick skull that the second member of the “we” she referred to may be my dog, and I feel a little foolish for assuming she was with a guy. But the quick shot of jealousy has me on notice. I shouldn’t be feeling anything about her being with another guy. I have no right.

“Went for a mud hike this afternoon.” Smiling, she points off into the distance at some muddy place I can’t see. “There’s a waterfall nestled in the hills back there and it stays wet most of the spring and into summer. And this year, with all the rains…”

She stops talking and stares at me. Because I’m staring at her. “Everything okay?” she asks. “How was practice?”

“Oh. It was fine. Team needs some mojo, but I’m working on it.” I slap a hand against the back of my neck, where I feel the prick of perspiration at the amount of work I have to do.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just feeling the pressure of leading a team of dummies with big skills and bigger egos.”

“Present company not excepted, I imagine.” She deadpans with the hint of a smile, a sight so pretty it soothes my aggravation, even if she’s razzing me at the same time.

“You know it,” I admit, feeling a smile pull at my lips. She still has an effect on me that no one else does.

“Do you want to come in? Have a drink or something?” Her brow furrows and she crosses her arms. I sense that she’s just being polite, but Truman has no such manners. He comes out from behind me and darts into the house.

“That’s a yes from Tru, but I should take this guy off your hands.”

“Okay, whatever you want.” She drops her arms, and her forehead relaxes. I’ve made the right call. If sports have taught me anything, it’s that it’s better to quit when I’m ahead, so I nod and produce a small stuffed penguin I saw in a gift shop. I feel a little silly handing it over.

“It’s not much. Just a little thanks for watching Tru.”

Trix hesitates before reaching for the plush toy. Almost like she can’t resist, she tilts her head to the side and presses her lips together, offering the penguin a small smile. Her smilegrows when her eyes meet mine. “Aw. Thank you. You’re sweet.”

“Glad you like it.” We stay like that, eyes locked, speaking the language of a fragile connection, one I don’t want to shatter. “Anyhow, Tru and I should head home.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes dancing. “Let’s see if we can get this boy to carry his dog bowl to the car.” She holds it out to him, and he cocks his head, uncertain what she wants him to do. “Come on, Truman,” she calls. He races back to her, and she tries to coax my dopey dog with a smile that would work on me ten times over.

I inhale a deep breath of fresh air mixed with oak leaves, lavender, and sunbaked grass. This is why I bought my place out here. Deep down, I know that I need something in my life besides hockey, and I know who that is, not what. But the fear is always riding me that I’ll lose focus entirely, lose my way, and have everything taken from me.

But a more substantial part of me wants more than time on the ice and a big paycheck. I can’t help believing that I’ll find what I’m looking for here. Looking at Beatrix, hair loose and untamed, dog treats in hand as she tries to get Truman to do something he’s never going to do, I feel a bit of the dark cloud lift. First time I’ve felt that way all day. It’s partly because I’m happy to see my dog, of course, but it’s also because I’m happy to see her.

She’s the best thing I’ve laid eyes on in a long time.

CHAPTER 9

Beatrix

It’s beena week since Ren came to pick up Truman, and I’ve had the blues ever since. I really miss him.

Truman. I miss Truman, not Ren.

Sure, seeing Ren standing on my porch did make my heart flutter a tiny bit, but it was more out of awkwardness about our hookup in his bedroom than an urge to do it again. Mostly.

He did look awfully good, freshly-showered after practice, with his hair slicked back. Tight gray shirt that left no ripple of his abs to the imagination. Low-slung jeans with a rip in the thigh that urged me to ask how he got it.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t do any of the things that briefly flitted through my mind because he’s still the guy who broke my heart. I hate that a part of me still likes him a little bit. So I just let him leave with his dog, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. Probably won’t.

Standing in my kitchen, I glance at all the personal touchesthat make my home feel like a haven—the collection of chicken-shaped pitchers from designers I love, the mismatched collection of coffee mugs on an open shelf, my pantry staples in mason jars on another shelf, the jug of fresh flowers on the window sill. Even when I’m working myself to the bone, I manage to cut some blooms from the garden here at Buttercup Hill.

I glance through the doorway to the fluffy area rug in my living room. It looks bare without Truman’s furry shape snoozing there in the morning sunlight. Would it be crazy to invite him back?

As if on cue, my phone pings with a text.

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