Page 17 of Short Stack 3

I walk into the lounge and set the presents around the tree, where they join Dylan’s for me and those for family in Devon.

“It starts early,” I carry on as he watches me like I’m the source of all knowledge. My husband could definitely take some lessons from him. “Dylan is more enthusiastic about social events than a Butlin’s redcoat entertainer.”

It’s chilly, so I switch on the fire. Then I wander back into the kitchen and pour myself a whisky. I grab a couple of mince pies from the tin that Dylan keeps full for the entirety of December and head back to the lounge, where I settle back on the sofa, enjoying the heat of the fire and the pretty twinkle of the tree lights.

The dog jumps up next to me and sits, observing me. I smile at him. “This is your home now. You’ll get used to it, and I think you might even love living here. I promise we willneverabandon you,” I add fiercely. I point my finger at him. “I can tell you this in confidence because I was like you once. I was a stray too.” He cocks his head to one side. “I never had anyone but myself, and then Dylan came along. You’ll love him.” I scratch his ears. “He’s a good person to love.”

The dog stretches, and I smile because he looks a little like an ostrich with his thin neck. “The thing about love is that it’s tricky,” I continue. “Sometimes it can really hurt, and you have to trust in something that you can’t see or hear and can only feel.Tricky,” I repeat. I watch as he sits up straight as if answering a call. I grin. “That’s your name, then.” I hold out my hand, and to my astonishment, he puts his paw in it. I shake it solemnly. “Hello, Tricky. It’s good to meet you. Welcome to the family.”

Half an hour later, I slide into bed.

“Alright?” Dylan mutters, but I can tell he’s still mostly asleep.

“The best,” I say frankly. A few minutes later, I feel a slight weight depress the mattress. I raise my head, looking at Charlie, who is already curled up in the hollow of Dylan’s legs. He typically spends his nights alternating between his basket and our bed. Tricky is sitting on the bed next to me.

“We will pretend thisneverhappened,” I say sternly, and he pants, looking for a second as if he’s laughing. Then I lie back, and with Dylan’s weight on my side and all the canine members of our family accounted for, I drift off to sleep.

It hardly seems like five minutes have passed when Dylan shouts in my ear, “Merry Christmas.”

I sit bolt upright. “What thefuck?” I mutter.

He laughs and ruffles my hair. “Come on. Presents.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to show you a good time if I like my gifts,” he says, dropping me a saucy wink that makes me laugh. “I’ll put the fire on and sort out the presents. You make some toast and tea,” he orders and disappears out the door.

I look around. The dogs are nowhere to be seen, so Dylan has obviously let them out. After sliding into pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt and putting on the Santa hat Dylan left as an implicit instruction, I head downstairs to the rather forceful Christmas elf I’m apparently living with.

When I enter the kitchen, I find the dogs sitting together in Charlie’s basket, looking comfortable and snug.

“Good morning, boys,” I say. Charlie bounds over and licks me before going in search of Dylan, whom he correctly identified as the primary source of food in this house and has never seen a reason to deviate from this conviction.

Tricky walks up next to me, tentatively wagging his tail, and I bend to kiss his nose. “Want some toast?” I enquire, and his tail wags harder.

I stick on the kettle and make toast. I cut the crusts off Tricky’s piece and hand him tiny squares. He gobbles them down, and I grin at him.

“What are you doing?”

I jump at Dylan’s voice. “Nothing,” I say quickly.

He walks into the room and leans against a cupboard, grinning at me. “Really? Because it actually looks like you’re feeding him toast.”

“He was hanging around looking sad. And his name is Tricky.”

He cocks his head, a smile playing on his full lips. “Why?”

I scratch my head awkwardly. “Love is tricky,” I mutter.

He pulls me to him, dropping a hard kiss into my hair. Then, breaking the moment as adeptly as usual, he grins at me. “How can Trickypossiblybe sad when he’s wearing a collar that cost more than my suits?”

I roll my eyes. “I can’t help it if you dress like an out-of-work illusionist.”

He laughs. He looks as handsome as ever in green plaid pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt that shows off his golden skin and the bulge of his biceps. “It’s a designer collar, Gabe.”

“He’s been homeless. I thought Louis Vuitton would cheer him up.”

“Well, he certainly looks happy.”

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