Page 136 of By A Thread

I took the cookies and the kid, and after ten minutes of delighted dog and boy greetings, I hooked Jace up with headphones and the Xbox that I’d bought for just such an occasion.

I lounged on the couch next to him, readingPride and Prejudiceand identifying with poor, misunderstood Darcy.

For lunch, I made us fancy grilled cheese sandwiches with roast beef and three kinds of cheese—Jace’s favorite. The kid ate two. I ate one. And Brownie ate six slices of roast beef before I caught him counter surfing. Sascha came back fifty-nine minutes after she’d left and collected her son and her empty cookie plate. Maybe I didn’t hate butterscotch as much as I thought.

I spent the rest of the day on the couch, which delighted Brownie. We watched the entire first season ofThe Great British Baking Showand then three episodes ofQueer Eye.I was inspired to order and to eat an entire sponge cake from the bakery three blocks over and pondered growing a beard.

Then I pondered what Ally thought about beards.

And the shame spiral began again.

Brownie dragged me out of the house for a walk early that evening, and I found my Range Rover keys tucked in the mail slot with a note that said, “Thanks for the ride.”

My SUV was parked down the street, and there was a six-pack of sports drinks on the passenger seat with a leftover Christmas bow stuck to it. There was also a small bag of dog treats in the cupholder.

I was both touched and annoyed.

Ally had yet to respond to any of my texts since Drunk Me made an ass of myself. After a quick scroll through my phone, I could at least understand why. They ran the gamut from intoxicated adoration like “your hair looks like a sexy bird’s nest” to “let’s never speak of this again.”

The bits and pieces that I remembered from last night gelled into one unflattering, inappropriate picture of a boss stepping over the line with his employee.

Once again, I’d proven that it was my father’s blood running through my veins.

I let Brownie pick the course around the neighborhood, and when he paused at his favorite tree, I pulled out my phone.

Me: Thanks for returning the car and not driving it to Mexico.

Maleficent: I did the Mexico run for authentic tacos before bringing it back. BTW, you’re low on gas, and you got seventeen traffic violations in Tijuana.

Me: You could have come inside.

Maleficent: I really couldn’t have.

Me: I’m sorry.

Maleficent: Don’t be. It’s for the best. Besides. Now we can try something new.

To me, “something new” meant stripping every article of clothing off her and licking, kissing, and biting my way over every inch of her body. I had a feeling this wasn’t what she had in mind.

Me: New?

Maleficent: Friends.

Me: I’m sure what you meant to type was “frenemies.”

Maleficent: Look at you being down with the lingo. Good job, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.

Me: I already don’t like this.

Maleficent: Have a good weekend. Remember to hydrate!

“Friends? How the hell is that supposed to work?” I asked Brownie.

He dug his face out of the snow he’d been sniffing and looked at me. Apparently my dog didn’t have the answer either.

* * *

I didus both a favor and didn’t text or email her for the rest of the weekend. Sure. I picked up my phone seven hundred times to do exactly that. But I managed to stop myself every time. I’d crossed so many fucking lines with her. She deserved a break.