Page 26 of Serenity Harbor

“How are things with Milo today?”

The distracted tone of his voice made it obvious the question simply provided an opening to whatever hetrulywanted to discuss.

“Good. We just got home after having lunch with some friends of mine. The Haven Point Helping Hands. Milo did very well. There were a few other children attending. While he didn’t necessarily play directly with them, he playednextto them.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I see it as an encouraging sign, especially since your intention is to start him in school as soon as possible. He didn’t have a single meltdown either. We’ve had a great day so far. But I’m sure you didn’t really call for a status report.”

She didn’t possess any miraculous insight into the way Bowie’s mind worked, but in the three days she had been caring for Milo—four, counting that first afternoon—he hadn’t called to chat one single time. This anomaly must mean something significant.

“You’re right,” he said, his tone rueful. “I need a huge favor. I’ve got a bit of an emergency. I know you said you couldn’t stay with Milo in the evenings, but I’m wondering if there’s any chance you might make an exception tonight. We’re in the middle of a major crisis here, and an extra few hours might make all the difference.”

She mentally scanned through her social calendar. Again, depressingly blank. Well, not completely—if she counted her plans to hide out in her room all evening while her mother and Uncle Mike entertained friends.

Compared with the alternative, she supposed chilling with Milo in Bowie’s beautiful lakeside house wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice.

“That should be fine, as far as I know.” She paused, making her voice as firm as she did with a misbehaving second-grader. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

“I’ll do my best.” She heard relief and a small thread of amusement in his voice.

“So what time can we expect you?” she asked.

“I hope no later than eight. I’ll let you know, though. There’s plenty of food in the fridge and freezer. You’re welcome to eat whatever you want for dinner—or call for pizza, if that sounds better. I don’t care.”

She was currently stuffed from all the delicious potluck salads provided by the other Helping Hands and wasn’t at all ready to think about dinner yet. “We’ll figure something out,” she answered.

“Thank you. I owe you.”

After they exchanged goodbyes and hung up, she turned to Milo. “Well, kid,” she said, “I guess it’s you and me for a few more hours. What would you like to do?”

She should have predicted when he held his hands up to his chest like they were paws, stuck his tongue out and made a panting sound.

“You want to go see Jerry Lewis?”

He nodded, and she had to smile. Whether he liked it or not, at some point in the not-so-distant future, Bowie would have to consider adding a pet to his household. The kid responded to animals far more than he did to people.

“It’s raining right now. Why don’t we play for a while until it passes, and then I’ll call Lizzie and see if she would let us hang out with Jerry Lewis, maybe take him for a walk. How does that work for you?”

He didn’t answer her—but neither did he have a meltdown at the prospect of having to wait for something he wanted. She considered that progress.

* * *

HEWASINso much trouble. Katrina Bailey was going to kill him.

Bowie pulled into the garage of his house, wincing when he glanced down and caught the time on the digital display on the dashboard. It was after ten, more than two hours past the time he’d told her he would be home. She had been doing him a favor, agreeing to stay past her usual time, and he had abused that favor horribly.

He would be lucky if she stayed in the job at all—and it would be his own damn fault if she quit.

He had no one to blame but himself. When he was focused on solving a problem, figuring out a new angle of attack, he tended to completely lose track of time—and apparently in this case, of his own obligations. He had been in the zone tonight. His team had finally arrowed in on a pesky software glitch, only a few layers of code away from fixing it, and Bowie hadn’t wanted to stop.

In some vague corner of his mind, something had tried to remind him he had obligations and responsibilities waiting for him, but he kept telling himself he needed only five more minutes. Then five more minutes and five more minutes. Before he realized it, here he was, two hours past the time he had promised he would be home.

He was fully aware Katrina was doing him a huge favor in the first place by agreeing to help him with Milo. While he was focusing on work again these last few days without that constant nagging worry about his brother, Bowie had feltcenteredfor the first time in weeks, and it showed in his job performance.

He didn’t know what he was doing when it came to Milo—that was no doubt crystal clear to anyone who might have seen them interact. This, though—combing through code, coming up with solutions—was his wheelhouse.

No matter how good it felt to be back in the groove, he should have been more mindful of time. Now he had to hope to hell he hadn’t screwed everything up, sabotaging the best thing that had happened to his crazy world since that unforgettable phone call informing him about his brother.

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