Page 27 of Over the Line

I’m heading for the paper towels when he comes back with a huge plastic shopping bag in his hands, reaching in and pulling out a pack of towels still with the plastic hanger secured at the top. “Here,” he says, shoving it at me.

I look at the towel then up at him. “You’re not going to wash it first?”

“It’s a towel. It’s clean.”

“Um,” I say, gently placing the set of plain blue cotton on the counter and reaching for the paper towels. Not ecofriendly, but at least we won’t get cholera. “It’s not clean. It’s been in a factory and then it’s been packed in boxes and shipped to stores and then unpacked and hung on the hooks in said stores while shoppers take it off and look at them before putting them back or little kids with their grubby hands touch them before someone like you buys them—at which point they are then put on a conveyor belt and touched by a cashier and a bagger before they finally end up here.” I shake my head. “So, not clean. Verynotclean and you should wash them before you use them.”

He lifts a brow. “You have a problem with my towels when you just stuck your hand into dog throw up?”

I glare, hating that he has a point. “No,” I snap. “I’m just smart and think things through and—” Here I falter because that’s not me at all, because I never really thought about this stuff until my sister gave me the same long spiel enough times for it to stick becauseshe’sthe germaphobe and—my heart convulses—she’s not in my life any longer. “And it makes sense to wash stuff like this before you use it.”

His hazel eyes held mine for a long moment. “Do you operate a washing machine better than a stove?”

“What?”

“Do you know how to use a washing machine?”

I huff out a breath. “I think my rant about using clean towels indicates I do.”

“Good.” He reaches toward me, snags the pan from my hands then shoves the towels at me. “You wash”—a nod to the huge bag—“I’ll cook.”

I don’t realizeuntil I’m halfway through my meal of brown butter pasta with bits of broccoli and peppers and blackened chicken breast and a dash of red pepper—a meal that’s significantly fancier than the Rice-A-Roni and ranch chicken I was going to make.

Not that mine wasn’t going to be tasty.

It’s just…me.

Maybe a little bland, forgettable. It fills a need if necessary, absolutely, but it doesn’t dance along the taste buds, doesn’t make them sing.

It’s halfway through this meal—me plunked onto the counter again, Lake leaning on the opposite side of it, conversation stilted and ringed with insults, though he doesn’t seem to be putting much effort into them, when Steve looks up at me with his big puppy eyes and whines, reminding me—

He hasn’t eaten dinner yet.

And he may have been a bit of a jerk since arriving in Lake’s house, but he’s still my baby boy.

And he’s hungry.

I set my plate to the side, glance down for any stray tacks—because I’ve decided today is the day where I can’t be too careful—then hop down, moving to the other side of the massive island, where my stack of bags sits.

My clothes.

My belongings from the apartment, everything that means something, everything I couldn’t leave behind.

Steve’s bag of blankets and toys.

Steve’s…

I frown and look around, searching as though the tote bag where I had his water and food bowls, his bag of kibble, his treats and the supplements that make his coat shiny is going to magically appear in the empty house.

Then bend and look under the counter, thinking it could be in the little opening where barstools would go—if the man had them.

Which he doesn’t.

Which also means I have a clear view of the space beneath and can see the tote bag isn’t there.

Also, I have to be real, if that food bag was anywhere in the vicinity of Steve’s reach, he would have been headfirst in it, snarfing down the entire package of kibble, eating until he made himself sick.

Instead of sitting like a good boy, whining up at me with big puppy dog eyes.

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