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“Keep it up, and I’m going to throw hot curried carrot on you.”
She giggles again. “No, you won’t. It’ll stain the floor. And you should really relax and embrace Christian’s true self. Since you’re going to the ball with him and everything.”
Smelling a rat, I nod. “You’re right. Maybe I should. I’ll look up some spanking stuff online later.”
Starling groans. “Ugh. You’re the worst.”
“Because I see through your schemes?”
“Yes. You should go to the ball with Dr. McGuire. This is clearly a case of the wrong Prince Charming, and who wants to go out with a guy who can’t take a joke? They’re the literal worst.” She pulls her cell from her back jeans pocket, glancing at the screen before she holds it out toward me. “See? He’s texted me eight times asking me to take down that shot of him ogling the bulldog’s butt. Does that seem like a me problem to you? No, that’s a him problem. If he hadn’t ogled whoever was standing by the bulldog, this never would have happened. He has no one but himself and his own hungry eyes to blame.” Starling squeals as she plops her cell on the counter and returns to cutting cucumbers. “Which reminds me! They’re showing Dirty Dancing as one of the summer movies in the park this year! We have to go! And dress up as Baby and her sister. You have to be Baby because you’re shorter, even though I’m technically the little sister.”
I agree and the conversation turns to all the things we have to do this summer, now that Starling’s back in Bad Dog.
We have a wonderful night, but as I slide into bed later, it still feels like something’s missing. Something maybe I’ll find in the man I shouldn’t have counted out, after all…
Chapter Ten
BARRETT
Three Days Later
I pull up to Wren’s house early Thursday morning, my palms sweating on the wheel for reasons that have nothing to do with how much Keanu Reeves hates his kennel.
Well, not very much to do with it, anyway.
The high-pitched screams he’s been emitting non-stop since I coaxed him into it with a piece of carrot aren’t pleasant, but he’ll be all right as soon as he’s out. He did a practice run hanging out with Starling and Kyle yesterday and did just fine at Wren’s house, where he’ll be staying while I’m gone.
Me, I’m not so sure about…
Yes, Wren agreed to attend the conference, but she’s…different since she came home. She doesn’t anticipate my personal needs or magically appear when I want to talk about something other than office business. I have to seek her out and ask if she has time for our end-of-day tea—and so far, since that first afternoon, she hasn’t. She’s still kind, but distant, cautious, as if there’s a chasm between us that she fears might swallow her whole if she gets too close.
I have to show her that there is no chasm.
Or that I can build a bridge over it.
Or you could back off and let her find happiness with someone normal, asshole. Someone who doesn’t have to work so hard to make his insides show on the outside. Someone who’s been aware that he has insides for longer than a few months.
Dimly, at the back of my mind, behind the inner critic, I hear my therapist’s voice, encouraging me to question these negative thoughts.
Are they true? Can I absolutely know they’re true? If not, is it really healthy to engage with them? Perhaps it’s time to dismiss them and move on to more positive things.
“As if it’s that easy,” I grumble, wincing as Keanu lets out another high-pitched wail. My inner critic is about as impossible to silence as my stressed-out rat dog.
Reminding myself I don’t have to silence the voice, just deprive it of the attention it needs to get out of hand, I swing out of my truck and circle around to fetch Keanu from the passenger’s seat.
As I open the door, Starling appears beside me, making me jump as she says, “He sounds like a fainting goat, doesn’t he? Or are those Nubian goats that scream? I forget.”
I exhale, “Jesus, you scared me.”
She smiles. “Sorry, Wren says I should wear a bell around my neck. I’m very stealthy. I was probably a famous ballerina in my former life. Or a ninja, though I don’t like to think about how much bad karma I could have racked up in years as a hired assassin.” She reaches for the door to Keanu’s kennel. “Here, let me carry him. He’ll be happier that way.”
She opens the door and Keanu shoots out like a tiny cannonball, latching onto my chest with his claws. Still wailing, he hangs from my dress shirt for a moment, before sliding down, tearing the fabric as he goes.
