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He stops next to me, eyes on the floor—thus, thankfully missing my drooling. He glances up, head shaking, mouth curved. “I still cannot believe a creature that small can make that much noise.”
My lips twitch. “Steve’s just making sure he gets every last crumb.”
A snort that’s very much like my starving pup’s. “It doesn’t look like he’s ever missed a crumb.”
Gasping, I bend and cover Steve’s ears. “Don’t listen to him, baby. You’re perfect, just the way you are.”
For what it’s worth, Stevedoesn’tlisten to Lake, and he doesn’t listen to me either. He’s fully focused on food, on licking up every last morsel from his bowl—even with my hands over his ears. I look up at Lake, and it’s to see something on his face that has my hands dropping away, my heart squeezing again.
I straighten, brush my palms on the front of my sweats. “I’ll get his leash.”
Lake opens his mouth, and I hesitate, but he just says, “I’ll get my boots.”
And then when Steve finishes licking his bowl—read, I finally pick it up and bring it to the sink so I can wash it—Lake carries my dog outside.
More snow has been dumpedand I have the feeling that I missed my window to drive out.
To keep moving forward.
Ishouldbe upset.
But instead, I’m standing in the window, watching Lake trying to get my pup to focus enough to use the bathroom.
He’s put the leash on, which I don’t think is strictly necessary, since Steve’s leg is still in the splint, but one never knows with my pup, so I can’t really fault Lake. But even with my pup down a leg, he’s pulling his typical walk shenanigans.
Sniffing.
Barking.
Not focusing.
Not using the facilities.
I keep expecting Lake to be impatient, and almost went outside to interject. But…he’s patient, just walking Steve slowly back and forth, letting my dog choose the path, letting him sniff to his heart’s content. And when my troublesome pupper finally does deign to make use of his outside bathroom, Lake lets out a whoop I hear through the glass, bending to rub my pup behind the ears.
Steve’s tongue lolls out, a puppy smile on his face.
And there my heart goes again.
Stupid, huh?
“I thinkthe snow’s going to keep falling like this for a while yet.”
I look up from my plate of blueberry pancakes—something that might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten—and meet Lake’s gorgeous hazel eyes. “Yeah,” I say, when he seems to be waiting for an answer.
“Are you going to go out and take more pictures?”
I inhale, heart doing that thing again.
But then I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “I don’t think so.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“I have enough shots to choose from,” I lie.
Hazel eyes on mine, studying the very depths of my soul. “I don’t think that’s it.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to think anything about my life.”
