"No rush."
He set his own mug down. Tipped his head at Moose, who was still tucked against his shin.
"He's been visiting her for a while, you know."
I blinked.
"Visiting who?"
He glanced over at the braided rug.
"Penny."
The golden retriever lifted her head at the sound of her name, gave me a long, patient look, and put it back down again.
"Couple times a week, he comes through the back gate. They hang out on the rug. He drinks her water. He leaves." A small smile. "I've been trying to figure out whose dog he was."
I closed my eyes.
"How long has this been going on?"
"Week and a half. Give or take."
"Aweek and a half?"
"Give or take."
"That gate." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I saw it standing open coming around the corner, and I didn't put ittogether. He's a menace. I'm so sorry. I thought he was doing yard laps. I didn't know he had a social life."
He laughed. The Queens crept back in.
"What's his name?"
"Moose."
"He's welcome any time. As long as you don't mind."
"I don't mind. I'm just—" I dragged my hand down my face. "He has friends before I do."
"How long have you been back?" he asked.
"A couple of weeks."
"What brings you back to Hartsdale?"
And there it was. The polite, ordinary question any neighbor asks. The one I had a thirty-second version of, a three-hour version of, and no version at all that I could give in his kitchen, in his shirt, with his eyes on me like that.
"Easton?"
"Yeah."
I tucked my fingers under Moose's collar and tried to make sheepish look like grace.
"I'd really love to catch up. I would. But maybe we do it when I'm wearing something other than your shirt?"
He looked at me.
He looked down at the shirt that hit me mid-thigh, the wet hair on my shoulders, my bare feet on his kitchen tile.
