Page 89 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian’s mouth twitches. “Just Sarah?”
“She specifically requested a charcuterie board.”
“Of course she did.”
“With cheese shaped like tiny squirrels and a peanut butter fountain.”
“Fine, we’ll create whatever she wants. I’ll bring wine. You bring the bubble wrap.”
“Deal. And the healthy treats she hates, just to remind her who’s in charge.”
Lucian leans back against something I can’t see, a smile still playing on his lips. “It’s a date.”
I should say no. Should remind him this is all temporary. Nah, why break the illusion when reality hits both of us pretty soon?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucian
Bark If You Miss Me . . . Or Just Kiss Me
Being in training camp for a week was . . . different.
I don’t even know why.
Olivia should already be at the house. Jacob made sure everything was arranged—her furniture into storage, her clothes into the guest room.
Did I want her moved into my room?
Yes.
Do I understand why?
Not even a little.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since the moment I left. Perhaps it’s because I want to wake up and see her barefoot in my kitchen again, scowling like she owns the place. Or maybe—I don’t know—maybe I’m just fucked in the head.
Because when you begin to fantasize about a woman in your bed while eating cereal in yesterday’s shirt, you’ve crossed a certain point of no return.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck and pull into the driveway.
The second I step inside, I know something’s off.
No barking. No paws skidding across the hardwood. No overly excited Sarah performing her parade-meets-protest routine as she usually does when I’ve been gone for more than ten minutes.
Just silence.
Which, with Sarah? Is never good.
I drop my duffel by the door, frowning. “Liv?”
Nothing.
Okay. Either she packed up and left Sarah behind in protest—or worse, the two of them formed an alliance and staged a takeover while I was gone. Maybe she’s moved me to the backyard and turned the house into a women-only commune.
I move toward the kitchen.
And that’s when I hear it—whimpering.
