Jasper looked down at the three of them and went very still.
“Is this the full lineup?” he asked.
“This is the full lineup.”
He lowered himself into a crouch. He did it slowly—slower than a man without a bad knee would have, slower than he would probably have done it if he hadn’t been trying to make the movement look casual. His right hand braced briefly on his thigh as he went down, and a small, tight look crossed his face and was gone again, and I felt a quiet pang somewhere I wasn’t expecting and said nothing about any of it.
He didn’t reach for them. He just held out one hand, palm up, and waited.
Wentworth walked right up to him, sniffed his knuckles once, and then head-butted Jasper’s palm so hard it actually moved his hand sideways.
“Well,” I said. “That’s one down.”
“He’s enthusiastic.”
“He’s a menace. He’s a very sweet menace.”
Knightley approached next, more deliberately. He did a slow, thoughtful figure-eight around Jasper’s ankles, rubbing the full length of his body against Jasper’s jeans on each pass, and then sat down just inside his orbit and looked up at him with the expression of a cat granting an audience. Jasper scratched him behind one ear, and Knightley closed his eyes and leaned into it like a dignified man accepting a dignified tribute.
“This one’s Knightley,” I said.
“He’s a gentleman.”
“He’s the best behaved of the three ninety-nine percent of the time, but that one percent is the absolute worst; he’s tricky. Don’t let that fool you. He once knocked an entire cup of tea off my nightstand because I didn’t start petting him as soon as he demanded.”
“Noted.”
Darcy had not moved. Darcy had jumped on the arm of the couch, watching from a safe distance, eyes narrow and assessing. Jasper looked up at me.
“Two out of three?”
“Darcy takes his time. Don’t take it personally.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
He started to rise, and I watched him do it without meaning to. He put his left hand on his knee and pushed up slowly, carefully, his weight shifting onto the other leg first, and his mouth tightened for just a second before it let go. I looked away before he could catch me looking. He caught me anyway.
“I’m fine,” he said, quietly. “Functional.”
“I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t pry.”
“I know. But you were about to. Because even if you don’t pry, you care. Am I right?”
I huffed a small laugh and turned toward the kitchen before he could see my face, which I was pretty sure had gone pink again somewhere aroundI know.He followed me in at a slower pace, giving me a second to collect myself, which I appreciated more than I was going to admit out loud.
I put the wildflowers in the mason jar, which I had to admit out loud was a mason jar and not a vase, and Jasper said he didn’t care, which I already knew he wouldn’t. I set them on the little kitchen table where the light from the window would catch them. They looked exactly right there—small and unfussy and genuinely pretty.
“Coffee or tea?” I asked.
“What are you having?”
“Tea.”
“Then I’ll have tea.”
I smiled at the kettle and busied myself with the mugs.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked.
