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When the door opened, Dylan tumbled out, already throwing his arms around Gen.
Gen, tail wagging so hard her whole body wavered, pressed her chin over his shoulder and lifted one paw, resting it across his leg where he crouched beside her. Abby had to swallow hard against the thickness in her throat as her dog nearly hugged Dylan back.
She’d done nothing in weeks but hold back one spate of crying after another.
Enough. No more tears.
If Gen could fight for her life, then she’d do her damn best to make sure it wasn’t made more difficult by forcing her dog to comfort her.
Can you gaslight a dog?Abby wondered.
Slipping the leash from her wrist, she handed it to Dylan. “Don’t let her get too excited, and no...”
“No treats or extra food.” Dylan nodded and stood; his forehead crinkled with concern. “I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
“I know you will.” Her throat closed, her voice pitching higher than normal, but her eyes stayed dry.
Instead of running for the stairs, Dylan led Gen into the living room, where a large dog bed had been tucked against one end of the couch. Flopping down on it, Dylan patted the space beside him.
Gen sniffed it, circled, then curled up.
He ran a hand down her spine. “Good girl.”
Heading for the kitchen, she slipped inside. Scott juggled a pan and a pair of tongs, a stack of ingredients waiting to his left, the sharp sound of sizzling oil and scent of browning meat filling the room. She paused a moment, taking in the sight of him, shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, cuffs rolled up to his elbows, jeans hugging his hips.
But nothing on those tight leggings he wears to play.
Jif’s comments about the players rattled through her mind at the most inopportune times. Her cheeks flushed and she swallowed hard.
Crossing the tiled floor, she slid up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He stiffened, then relaxed. “Hey.”
She pressed her nose between his shoulder blades, inhaling the scent. “Hi.” Then, “Missed you.”
Turning, he pulled her into his chest. “Missed you, too.”
Tipping her head back to smile up at him, he bent to meet her, his lips brushing across hers, delicate, tantalizing. Pushing to her toes, she pressed into the kiss, and he responded in kind, running a hand over her hip and up her spine to tangle in her hair.
Dropping her hands to his waist, she found the loops of his jeans and pulled herself closer as he cradled her head and ran a fine line of kisses along the length of her jaw.
Abby let herself get lost in the sensation of his firm strength, a welcome distraction, something good in the midst of so much terrible.
Scott broke the kiss, but Abby followed him, not yet ready to surrender the moment. He pressed his lips to hers again, more gently, then touched their foreheads together, eyes dark and expression solemn.
The acrid tang of smoke burned her nose, and she pulled back.
A moment later, Scott noticed, and, with a swear, he dove for the pan of chicken on the stove, sliding it off the hot burner and reaching for the tongs.
Stepping back, Abby combed her fingers through her hair and smiled. “Did you save it?”
Scott glanced over his shoulder and winked. “Ialwayssave it.”
She burst out laughing and he froze, hand suspended above the pan, tongs already angled to scoop up the lightly charred chicken.
“Sorry,” she gasped, shoulders still shaking in amusement. “Sorry, that was... I can’t ...”
He turned back to the stove, held still a moment longer, then moved the chicken onto a plate. Under his breath, she barely caught his words. “You haven’t laughed in weeks.”
She sobered. Took a breath. Let it out. “I know. I’m... sorry.”