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We watch as he opens the door and the dog storms out, licking Huck in the face before bouncing down the steps.

“He’s autistic,” I say. “The speech patterns, that’s part of it. He doesn’t like questions.”

“You’re good with him.” The observation unknowingly lashes a million cuts across my heart.

A bouncing, barking George Strait pounces toward me when Huck says loudly, “Huck wonders if Bo is coming on a walk with us.”

Bo glances at me before kneeling next to him. “I would love that, but I have to go home right now.” He pauses. “But Bo wonders”—his eyes flick to mine, as if asking if he’s doing it right and I nod—“if Huck and Birdie would like to have dinner with Bo sometime.” They both look up at me.

What?

I swallow hard, concurrently wanting to sayYes!andAbsolutely not.

“I will have to think about it.”For a long time.“And ask Miss Alice if Huck’s allowed.”

Bo leans closer to Huck and loudly whispers, “That means yes, Huck.”

At this, Huck laughs.

Then, like he didn’t just make my heart expand to the point of pressing against bone, Bo gets in his Jeep, flicks a casual two-finger wave and grin in my direction, and drives away.

Ten

When I get toVeda’s house Monday morning, my, “Knock! Knock!” call as I open the unlocked front door is met with her, “Back here!” from the sunroom along with a steady humming noise.

In the sunroom, the wet clay spinning in the middle of the potter’s wheel is being pulled into a cylinder by two large hands.

Bo.

The stool seems too small and his body too big as he rounds over the wheel like some kind of giant. His eyes lift to mine with a playful look, dark hair falling from behind his ears into his eyes, clay still spinning. The sight of him sends a million butterflies fluttering from my belly to my throat.

“Bo.” I say his name like it’s a complete concept.

“Birdie,” he says with a smirk, toothpick perched in the corner of his mouth, before returning his attention back to the clay.

There’s a short silence interrupted by Veda’s, “Well isn’t anyone going to acknowledge me?” which makes me snort a laugh.

“Sorry. Good morning, Veda,” I say with a cheeky grin, holding up the bag I’m carrying. “I brought you something.”

I look at Bo again, watching as he moves his fingers slightly and turns the straight walls of the cylinder into something curvy. Sexy, somehow.

“I didn’t know you knew how to do this,” I say to him.

He looks up at me. “Nowhere near as good as you.” He nods toward my misshapen pinch pot sitting on a shelf while the clay still spins between his hands.

“Ass.”

“Isn’t he though?” Veda laughs softly.

Redirecting my attention to her, I pull a pair of puffy purple gloves out of the bag.

“I did some research, and nothing is guaranteed, or overnight of course, but I read these might help with your hands. They heat up and help with pain relief and mobility.” I take out a box of tea. “And this tea supposedly alleviates the inflammation.”

The only sound is the hum of the wheel spinning while she looks at them. Quietly.

I keep talking because I don’t know what else to do in her silence. “It might take a few months, the reviews I read said six months for some people, but I thought maybe it was worth a shot…” Her expression is unreadable as she looks at them and I wonder if I’ve overstepped.

“Don’t be stubborn, Gran,” Bo calls from the wheel.