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With a raspy sigh, he leans his head back, eye closed. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I kneel on the floor in front of him and untie his work boots, slipping them off and putting them to the side. Underneath, his socks are soggy. I pull those off, too, and gently massage his damp, ice-cold feet until his skin is warm again and the bluish tint has faded.
His breathing and the crackling of the fire is the only sound between us, but I can almost hear the buzzing static traveling from my fingertips to his flesh.
“Can I make you some tea or soup?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head and his wet hair falls over his face. His cheeks are red from the cold, streaked with dried tears. “I can’t eat.” He coughs and takes a deep breath. “But thank you… for…”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
His eye opens for a moment, locks onto mine then slowly closes.
I reach for his hand, and gasp when I see his palms are blistered open, raw and bleeding from the shovel handle.
“Don’t move,” I say and sprint to the kitchen. I return with a warm, wet cloth, antibiotic ointment, and bandages.
“Penny…”
“Shhh…” I say just above a whisper, lightly dabbing his palms with the cloth. “Let me take care of you, Alex.”
Kneeling in front of him again, I rub the ointment into his palms as gently as I can. The skin beneath the blisters is angry red, and I can’t imagine how much it must sting.
“I’m so sorry,” I say when he winces. “I know it hurts, but this should make it feel better.”
“Thank you,” he says hoarsely as I wrap the bandage tape around his palms. When I’m done, he sits forward, and the blanket falls from his shoulders. The fire casts shadows and an orange glow over his face and bare chest as he stares down at me, where I’m still kneeling between his legs. My heart stutters when he reaches out and caresses my cheek with his bandaged palm.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a soft, husky voice.
Emotion crawls up into my throat, straining my words. I nod, and a teardrop slips from my eye and tracks down my cheek. He catches it with his thumb.
“She was special to both of us,” he says.
“She really was. Thank you for letting me love her.”
“She loved you. After Bri died, she never touched her ball. Not until you came.”
A bittersweet smile curves my lips. “I loved playing with her.”
“As much as Cherry was grieving Bri, she got me through so many dark days. I should’ve played with her more when she was younger instead of being such a fucking mess.”
Regret—grief’s right-hand man—is already taking up residence in his soul.
I rest my hands on his legs. “Alex, she adored you. She’d sit for hours just watching you work. And you were so good with her as she got older. So gentle and patient. Do you know how rare it is for a dog to live nineteen years? Your love for her, and hers for you, did that. Please don’t doubt that.”
His head bows lower, closer to mine. He smells like winter and wood. “I’m not sure I know how to love anymore,” he admits quietly.
I look up into his tormented face. “Yes, you do. You love perfectly.”
Dragging in a breath, he cups my other cheek, holding my face in his hands and pulls me to him. My breath catches and my pulse races as he presses his warm lips to my forehead, holding them there for several long, breathless seconds.
“How do you do that?” he asks when he slowly pulls away.
My ability to form words is lost in a swirl of emotions and sudden light-headedness. “Do what?” I finally manage to ask.
“Always make me believe that I’m better than I really am.”
“No, Fox. Not better. I want you to believe that you deserve to be happy. To be successful.” I lean into his palm. “To have love.”
His gaze drifts down to my lips, making my heart launch into an unexpected, wild percussion. I’d be surprised if he can’t hear it drumming against my rib cage. Nervously, I run my tongue along my lower lip. I immediately catch the slight clench of his jaw, the twitch of the muscle.
His eye darkens as he leans back. “I should go take a shower,” he says.
Nodding, I stand to move out of his way. I take the blanket and fold it as he rises and walks to the stairway. I can’t help but notice his slower gait, the slump of his shoulders, the weight of sadness already pressing down on him.
I was unprepared to see the tattoo spanning his entire back, shoulder to shoulder, of a heart made of dragon scales, cracked down the center by a jeweled dagger directly over his spine. It’s both breathtaking and heartbreaking to see his broken heart forever branded into his flesh.
