I beat him to it.
“Before you speak, let’s all remember that tone is a choice, and I did light a candle.”
Rowan stares.
I gesture toward the bathroom. “It was sandalwood. For ambiance.”
He drags a hand down his face and mutters something I don’t catch.
“You said I could bathe him,” I add quickly. “You literally said that.”
“In a controlled manner,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep. Not like”—he waves his hand dismissively through the air—“whatever this is.
I open my mouth to argue, but then Waffles comes careening around the corner, water still clinging to one ear, and skids across the tile into the foyer rug.
Rowan flinches.
“That rug,” he says, staring at it in horror, “is hand knotted. From Nepal.”
“Okay, but to be fair,” I pant, scrambling to my feet, “so is his trauma.”
I dive. Miss. Waffles does a figure-eight around Rowan’s ankles and lets out a bark so smug it nearly makes me cry. “I had him under control.” I haul myself upright and try not to look like I just lost a fight with a very small, very moist werewolf.
Rowan doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, utterly still.
I brush wet hair out of my face and try to look composed, which is hard when you smell like wet dog and your bra is sticking to your ribs.
“Okay,” I say brightly. “So maybe there was a small complication. But it’s nothing I can’t fix. I brought towels. And Swiffer pads. And?—”
“You used my shower.”
“Yes?”
“You let that gremlin sprint through my hallway while I was asleep.”
“In my defense,” I say, backing slowly toward Waffles, “only toddlers nap at this hour.”
He blinks. “Tessa.”
“It was a hygiene emergency! You told me not to let him stink. And he rolled in something behind the vet’s office.”
“I didn’t say you could turn my apartment into a dog spa.”
“I announced myself!”
“By yelling ‘It’s me’ and then slamming the door?”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Would you rather I texted first or just set off a flare?”
He mutters something about wishing he had more renters’ insurance, then turns toward the kitchen.
I follow.
Because apparently, shame doesn’t kill you. It just makes you annoying.
