Page 16 of Finding Gideon

Nothing. Just a look like I’d disappointed him.

“Okay, okay. Back to the drawing board.”

I scooped up the empty dish and stepped into the hallway, the dog padding at my heels. Lately, he stuck close. Like he’d already decided I was his person.

Pale morning light spilled through the landing window, catching in the worn wood grain beneath my feet.

Halfway down the hall, I slowed enough to glance at Malcolm’s door. Still closed.

I caught the faintest rustle inside—soft enough I could’ve imagined it, but I didn’t think I had. Malcolm was probably already awake.

The dog’s nails clicked lightly against the floor as we headed for the kitchen.

“Guess it’s just us for now,” I told him. “Let’s get some coffee going before the boss shows up.”

He tilted his head like he knew exactly who I meant.

I measured out the grounds, filled the machine, and hit the button. The scent started to fill the air, warm and rich. I found eggs, a few slices of ham, and bread in the fridge. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough. The butter hissed when it hit the skillet, followed by the soft sizzle of whisked eggs.

“You’re supervising, right?” I asked the dog.

He sat like a sentry, watching every move.

I’d just folded the omelet when I knew Malcolm was there. Not because I heard him, but because something in the air shifted. Like my skin caught the change before my ears did.

“Good morning,” he said, warmth in his tone. He stepped past me to the cupboard for a mug.

“Morning,” I replied, sliding the coffee pot a little closer to him. “Figured I’d get things started.”

His mouth quirked—just a hint. “You’ve been doing that all week.”

I shrugged. “Guess I like the routine.”

The dog’s tail thumped like a drumbeat. Malcolm crouched to greet him, hand sliding behind his ears in a way that made the pup lean into it like he’d been waiting all morning.

“Smells good,” Malcolm said, straightening. He poured himself coffee then took a long sip, eyes briefly closing as if the heat settled something in him.

“Hope you’re hungry,” I said, sliding the omelet onto a plate. “This is about the limit of my culinary range.”

“I’ll take it,” he said.

We ate at the small kitchen table, the dog stretched out between our chairs. The talk was easy—small things about the day ahead, a reminder to pick up more gauze, the fact that one of the filing cabinets at the clinic had decided to stick again.

His gaze dropped to the dog, who had flopped dramatically onto his side in front of the fridge.

"Did he make himself comfortable?"

"He’s got a talent for that," I said. "Climbed up on the bed last night like he owned it. Didn’t even ask."

Malcolm picked up a piece of toast, bit into it, and gave me a nod of approval. "You let him stay?"

"I didn’t have the heart to kick him off. He stretched out across my feet. Warm little furnace."

"Sounds like you’re bonded."

"Thought that was just a thing people said about horses."

He chuckled. "Have you picked a name for him yet?"