I nudge open the bathroom door and?—
Of course.
It’s pristine with a walk-in shower that looks designed for product photography.
Waffles sniffs the marble, and I see him considering his options.
“You so much as lift a leg, I will fake your death and enroll you in obedience boarding in Idaho,” I whisper.
I set him in the tub, roll up my sleeves, and turn on the water.
It’s fine.
I’ve done worse.
I grew up bathing in gas station sinks on road trips with a single mom and a cracked bottle of hotel shampoo. I’ve been sprayed with puke, pissed on by toddlers, and once cleaned a shelter kennel using nothing but a bucket and a sponge mop.
This? This is a spa day.
Until Waffles jumps out.
“Waffles!”
Water goes everywhere.
He hits the tile, legs flailing, fur drenched, ears flying in opposite directions. He tears through the hallway and shakes offmid-run, sending a fine mist of water across Rowan’s abstract wall art.
I chase him, slipping on my own wet socks. “This is why we can’t have nice things!” He slides into the living room.
And then?—
Then Rowan appears.
Sleep-rumpled. Barefoot. Wearing gray sweatpants and the expression of a man who just stepped out of a hostage negotiation.
He surveys the chaos.
The dripping floor.
The wet dog on his leather ottoman.
Me.
“Explain,” he says.
I open my mouth, then close it.
Waffles shakes again. Water sprays across the couch.
“I had a coupon,” I say helplessly.
I lunge after Waffles just as he makes a break for it. My fingers brush his tail and miss right as he veers left, then sprints down the hall and slides, full body, into the wall.
The thud echoes through the apartment.
Rowan stops.
And then he blinks, slow and dangerous.
