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“Here?” Bright lifts a hand and waves.
I toss the ball, and Luna runs to the side, leaps in, and swims for it. Bright pitches it back and after another two times, I pull out a second ball, and Kyle sits right alongside Luna.
“What are you doing?” Livy’s voice is etched with panic.
I pitch one and then another, Kyle jumping in again, but swimming this time.
“Teaching him how to swim. He has to be able to get to the stairs if he falls in.”
She puts both hands over her nose and mouth and peers around her fingers. “I didn’t think of that.”
“You didn’t have to, Pix. I did.”
I walk over and kiss her lips. It’s brief and chaste. “Want to come in?”
“Give me a few,” she replies. “I’m enjoying the show.”
* * *
“Do you mind if I steal him?” Bright asks Livy after lunch.
“Not at all. I’ve got some calls to make, and I need to get a load of laundry or two done. Want me to keep the dogs?”
“Normally, I’d say yes, but since Luna doesn’t know this house all that well, let’s see what she does when I go to leave.”
“Works for me.” Turning to me, she asks, “Need anything while you’re gone? Grocery delivery? Anything?”
“Nah. Besides, we’re going for a drive, not a cross-country road trip. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”
The smile that crawls across her face promises she’ll think of me while I’m away.
“Enjoy your time.” Livy drops a kiss to my lips where I sit and heads back toward the master suite.
“Ready?” Bright asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” I stand, and we make our way to the door. Luna follows as Kyle peels back toward Livy.
That answers the dog question.
Bright dumps her bag on the floorboard and opens the back door for her pup. The front doors are off, and the top has been removed on her Jeep.
“Why did I agree to this in September? Should’ve waited another month or so and the weather would’ve been perfect.”
“The man who would sweat for a living is complaining about the heat? Pretend it’s a sauna and you’re sweating out impurities.” She slides into the front seat.
I buckle my seat belt. “I’ll need a nap and IV hydration after this I’d bet. Don’t do anything that requires me to use these handles,” I say, pointing at the fabric grips hanging from the roll bars.
I won’t say that I’m not struggling with the open-air concept or that the idea of having no control isn’t giving me the jitters. I know damn well that if I have to grab onto a handle or a roll bar or brace myself in any way, my body won’t have the strength to do it and the attempt will be painful at best, detrimental at worst.
She pulls out onto the street and hits buttons on her steering wheel to call up music.
“No Dolly. Or Patsy. Or Shania. Or Reba.”
“Somebody’s a negative Nelly today,” she retorts.
“I just don’t want the who’s who of country music legends today. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Just the women, then? Are Hank and Willie okay?”
