Page 92 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia steps closer, her voice now quieter. “She’s a dog, Lucian. She was upset. She acted out. That’s all. We need to retrain her and figure out why she’s upset. Once the clinic is up and running, I can take her with me. She’ll be my assistant.”
I huff out a breath, not wanting to think about this whole scenario where Olivia is part of our lives full-time because that’s not how my life works. “Tell that to my chair.”
She bites her lip, and then—she laughs. It’s loud, full-bodied laughter that is completely inappropriate and hits me straight in the gut.
And I let her. Because I’m not actually mad. Not at her. Not even at Sarah.
The truth is, the chair was replaceable. Expensive, sure, but replaceable.
This moment? Her here, barefoot and disheveled, in my kitchen. Sarah is trying to melt into the floor with dramatics that rival Broadway’s finest. The weird, gut-twisting relief of walking into my house and realizing I missed them.
“I thought she’d throw a parade when I got home,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. Not quite the gravelly, sexy kind—more like I’ve been chewing on regret for a week and finally remembered how to speak.
“Usually, she loses her shit. Spins in circles. Screams like I’ve returned from war.” I scrub a hand across my jaw, suddenly aware that there’s stubble she wouldn’t approve of. “I kind of live for it.”
Olivia shifts, her feet curling against the tile as if they’re cold, despite the morning sun pouring through the windows. “She tried,” she says softly. “This day has been very tough for her.”
“But she’s my best girl,” I say with the baby voice Sarah loves.
Sarah finally rolls over as if she’s working through her existential dread, then pads toward me, slow and cautious, as though I might disappear again. Her eyes meet mine—hopeful yet unsure, like we’re both trying to determine if this reunion is real or just a dream we’re hesitant to trust.
I drop to one knee. Arms wide. “C’mere, baby.”
And that’s all it takes.
She launches at me like a furry missile, and chaos ensues. Paws on my chest, snout against my neck, her tail thumping as if it has its own drumline. And, God, I missed this. I missed her.
Missed this house.
Missed . . . Olivia, which is very strange, because I don’t miss people—except my family, of course.
She’s watching us, her hand halfway in the cereal box, fingers curled around a handful like spoons are a scam she’s never bought into. She’s barefoot, hair a little wild, eating dry cereal like it’s a personality trait.
When our eyes meet, something shifts—low and certain, like the beginning of a storm you don’t bother to run from. It settles behind my ribs and lingers there, unapologetic.
This? This isn’t just a homecoming.
It’s a fucking reckoning.
Because Sarah’s tail is wagging furiously as if she hasn’t chewed through the leg of a five-thousand-dollar designer chair. Because Olivia stands barefoot in my house, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that should be illegal—so thin that it’s almost see-through in the light, just long enough to make me wonder if she’s wearing anything underneath.
She smells like flowers and home, which is quite unusual because people shouldn’t smell like home. Perhaps it’s all those fucking texts we exchanged— the ones I somehow became addicted to.
“Are you gonna give me a hug?” I ask, my voice casual, almost lazy. “Or are you just gonna keep pretending I’m not the best thing to happen to this kitchen since your cinnamon cereal?”
She blinks. “Are you flirting with me, Crawford?”
I stand, while Sarah continues dancing at my feet as if she’s providing backup vocals for this moment. “That depends. Areyou going to pretend you didn’t text me that you missed me . . . three nights in a row?”
“Oh, there you are, taking texts out of context again. Only you would do that.” She rolls her eyes and then points at Sarah. “She missed you. Me . . . I was grateful that I didn’t have to deal with your personality . . . well, in person.”
I scoff. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” she squeaks, and I think it’s kind of adorable.
“Try again, Liv. Just admit that you missed me and give me my welcome home hug.” I wink at her. “You know you want it, baby.”
A flush creeps up her neck, and I swear I feel it too—like heat rising in the space between us.
