Page 44 of His Angel

Seriously? Can I possibly be more of a cliché?

“Deep dish or thin crust?”

Yes, apparently I can.

Awkward silences make me…well…awkward. I hate it. The clinging tension, the existential dread of dwindling topics. So, I keep pushing, overcompensating with cheesy questions. “Favorite color? Film? Ancient civilization? Preferred cutlery?”

My only response is the tic of his cheek, the rhythm unbroken.

I huff, spinning back, sand sticking to my feet as Luna races around with a stick, drooling like she’s won the lottery.

I bend down, scooping wet sand into my hands, molding it slowly, fingers shaping a lumpy mess.

“Ever mess with sand sculpting?” I lob it at the waves, grinning as it splats, and squat to pat another pile, peeking up at him. “I’m awful at it. Mine always turns out looking like piles of elephant poop.” I cringe at my analogy. “Bet you could do better. Those hands look steady.”

His fingers flex—long, calloused—then he nods like he’s humoring me, tic flickering.

Luna barrels back, panting hard, and drops the soggy stick at my feet, her eyes bright and demanding. I grab it and stumble over a ripple in the sand, falling on my ass in the warm surf, breaking out in a fit of laughter.

The stick flings out of my hand and skitters across the beach with Luna in hot pursuit. She's all barks and wagging tail, no concern for anything except her stick while I’m covered in wet sand, laughing like a maniac, my sundress soaked and clinging.

I’m pretty sure I heard a hushed chuckle coming from Wyatt.

I lean back on my hands, craning my neck, eyes closed as I soak up the last bit of sun for the day. “You got a dog, Wyatt? You look like a dog guy.”

I’m not looking at him, but I hear the sand grind under his boots. “Had one,” he mutters, then clears his throat.

On the inside, I’m doing a victory dance because I made him talk, but on the outside, I’m stone. “Had one?”

“Gave him away.”

This time I glance up at him. “Gave him away? Why?”

He hesitates, scanning the surroundings before saying, “Gave him to my brother when I got this job.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense. You’re hardly home, I suppose.” I wiggle my toes, burying them in the sand. “What’s his name?”

“Max.”

I snicker. “Max? That’s like the default dog name.”

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, his expression softening. Even the tic on his cheek is gone for a moment.

“What kind of dog is Max?”

“Shepherd mix.”

“We had a shepherd mix when I was little. Oliver.” I shoot him a teasing grin. “Our choice of a dog name was more creative.”

“Oliver sounds like a butler’s name.”

I laugh, and Luna returns with the stick, which I snag, tossing it high, water swirling around my shins. “Did Max have a preference when it came to shoe chewing?”

He crouches, rifle propped beside him, elbows on his knees, cheek twitching as he thinks. “Boots,” he says, voice a little less rough now. “He always went for the leather boots.”

“Boots?” I snort, leaning back on my hands, sand warm under my palms. “Max has grit. Oliver was too chicken for leather and stuck with rubber flip-flops.”

A spark of amusement ignites in Wyatt's eyes as they meet mine. He shares a short chuckle and scratches the back of his neck. “Max is a tough one.”

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