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The introduction had, in fact, gone extremely well. The boys spent about twenty minutes in a ritual butt-sniffing and then went back to their usual business. But Lizzie went nose to nose with Mr. D one time and decided she was in love. Though the corgi was considerably bigger than what Kelsey guessed was a long-haired chihuahua, they were about the same height. Apparently, Lizzie had been cranky because she was surrounded by giants.
Mr. Darcy, too, had had few chances to play with smaller dogs. Going to dog parks made Kelsey tense; there were always people there who were treating their dogs too harshly, or not firmly enough, too many dogs in choke chains and pinch collars. She spent the whole time in an emotional knot, wanting to school those people while equally wanting not to get into a confrontation with strangers.
Rowdy, her parent’s pit bull, was his most consistent playmate, and Rowdy was a hundred pounds and still mostly puppy. He was a lot for Mr. D to take.
Lizzie was just his size, and he was hers. A match made in doggie heaven.
“I’m glad it went so smooth. Now, you can both come over, and you don’t have to leave early or make arrangements for him.”
“Yep. It’s perfect.”
Actually, Kelsey preferred her apartment to this house. Yes, he had a lot more space, but he hadn’t put a lot of effort into decorating. It wasn’t a frat house or anything, he kept things clean and well maintained, and the furniture was comfortable, but … well, for instance: he had nowhere to sit down and have a nice meal. The dining room was empty, as far as its intended use was concerned. There was a lot of dog stuff in there: a big fruit crate of dog toys, several beds, and a big dog-watering station that was basically a trough. The kitchen had a pass-through to the dining room, with a bit of counter, but not a place to sit. He ate all his meals standing at the counter or sitting on the sofa.
The whole house was like that: decent furniture but just barely enough to live on. Her apartment was fixed just as she liked it. Only four rooms, but each one made her happy. However, they both had dog responsibilities, and he could hardly bring his whole pack to her tiny apartment. Ergo, here was where they would spend the bulk of their time.
Here and the clubhouse, probably. And, hopefully, at some point there would be actual dates.
Seth had turned back to the stove. Kelsey followed and leaned against the counter to watch. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Positive. I told you I’d cook.”
When he’d told her he’d cook, she’d conjured an image of her dad or brother cooking: her father’s specialty was Kraft mac-n-cheese with some browned ground beef tossed in. Duncan’s version of a home-cooked meal didn’t bother with the beef.
But Seth could actually cook. Better than she did, maybe. He was sautéing two chicken breasts and some sliced mushrooms in a white wine reduction while a creamy sauce simmered and angel-hair pasta boiled.
“Did your mom teach you to cook?” she asked.
A stunted laugh left his mouth. “Uh, no. My mom wasn’t much of a cook. I picked it up on my own. I’m not really good at it, but I can follow a recipe. I’m good at following orders.”
That last line might have been meant to be funny, a little bit of sarcasm, but he’d said it flatly, like it was simply true. He could cook because he’d been a Marine. She wasn’t sure those two ideas hooked up, A to B, but okay.
He’d used past tense to refer to his mom, so she focused her curiosity there and asked, as gently as she could, “You said your momwasn’ta cook. Is she gone?”
Seth’s focus on the pan before him became complete. For a long time—an actual minute, maybe more—he said nothing, moved nowhere, maybe didn’t breathe.
And then, without looking away from the pan, in a voice ice-cold and completely devoid of inflection, barely human, he said, “I don’t want to talk about my mom.”
Kelsey couldn’t tell whether that cold voice came from pain or hostility, but it scared her either way. “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
Something in her tone made him flinch. He turned down the burners, set the spatula aside, went to the other counter for his glass of wine, and chugged it all down in about two swallows. Then he turned and leaned back on the counter.
It bothered her that he’d chosen to take up a position across the room, as far from her as he could get and still be within the same four walls.
“I’m not mad,” he said. “And I know we need to talk about that kind of stuff. Before we get in too far together, there’s shit you need to know. I understand that. But I’m gonna need to work my way to it, okay?”
“Okay. Take your time.” Meanwhile, she was an open book. He knew just about everything there was to know about her.
“Thanks. I need to talk to you about something else,” he said as he went back to his cooking.
“Yeah? Okay.”
“It’s club stuff, so I can’t get into it too much. But things could get pretty hot after the weekend. In the new year.”
That was a refrain with which Kelsey was quite familiar. Occasionally throughout most of her life, and often for a few years recently, things got ‘hot’ with the Bulls. She never knew the details until and unless those details made the news, but it always meant violence and danger. All too often it mean hospitals and morgues.
She sighed—in weariness or resignation or worry, she didn’t know. “Like, lockdown hot?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just … fuck. I don’t want you hurt, Kelse. I’ve been thinking about it for days now, and …” He stopped, shrugged, poked at the chicken. “I don’t want you hurt.”
