Page 5

5

Holt

Ziggy changed her clothes.

She’s fancy again. But unlike last night’s kind of fancy, when she was in black-and-white to match the serving crew during the event, today she’s a splash of color.

Pale-green sleeveless blouse that looks soft as peach fuzz. Swishy skirt with a curvy pattern of blues and yellows and greens. Small, simple hoop earrings. Hair in a tidier bun that still shows her curls.

But her shoes?—

She’s wearing glittery pink Converse sneakers.

They don’t match the rest of her.

Good thing I’m leaving town in four days. If I wasn’t, I’d be asking a pregnant woman to move in to my house anyway.

So I could take care of her.

So I could see her every day .

So I could find out what other secrets and contradictions she’s hiding, like her glittery pink Converse sneakers.

I haven’t had a crush like this in what feels like decades.

“Is that a Viking oven?” she says as we enter the kitchen in the three-bedroom Craftsman that Caden bought ten years ago when he moved here to Copper Valley to take a job for an engineering firm. We’re in an average neighborhood south of downtown. This room is among the half of the house that’s been fully renovated. Still have my bedroom—not the primary suite, which I could move into, but don’t want to—three bathrooms, and the basement to go. “And a subzero fridge? Am I in heaven?”

“Enough people have died in here that it might be,” I mutter to myself.

She squints at me. “What?”

“Contractor suggested the appliances.”

“Good taste. They look like they haven’t been used.”

“Not much of a chef.”

“This kitchen says otherwise.”

“Didn’t really pick anything in here.” Not the maple cabinets. Not the black granite countertops. Not the dark gray slate flooring.

She lifts her brows at me.

I don’t know what changed since this morning—maybe getting out of the heat—but she’s not as wary right now.

And I could drown in those wide blue eyes.

Get a fucking grip, Webster .

“Was my brother’s house. He had plans. I just did what he would’ve.”

I don’t add he died .

Just let it linger in the air between us, watching as her expression goes from curious to a sympathetic sort of kind .

I brace myself for the inevitable I’m sorry for your loss , but it doesn’t come. Instead, she runs a hand over the island countertop. “He had good taste.”

I keep my expression neutral. “His designer had good taste.”

“I see. Where’s your dog?”

Probably plotting to take over the world with one of the neighbor’s dogs. “Out back.”

“In this heat?”

The hell-beast likes it. “She has odd preferences.”

I walk over the new slate flooring to the thick back door that matches the cabinets, gesturing Ziggy out onto the covered porch first.

The sunroom is the one thing Caden finished before he got sick.

She pauses and looks up at the palm-leaf fan that looks like it belongs in a tourist trap in Florida, and then looks down at the bistro table and the 1980s-style wicker furniture with the old lady flower cushions.

“Well. This is…cozy,” Ziggy says. “Did you pick the furniture?”

“My brother did.”

She purses her lips.

Then purses them harder. “I see.”

“It’s the one room he finished before he got sick.”

“He had interesting taste.”

If he could hear her tone, he’d be equal parts amused and insulted. “He always said he was into men who loved their grandmas, so this was supposed to be his test room.”

She puts her fingers to her mouth, and those bright blue eyes start dancing. “That’s…”

“Special,” I finish .

“I was going to say very strategic.”

I gesture to the screen door. “Jessica’s this way.”

“Your dog’s name is Jessica?”

“Didn’t name her.”

“Oh, you adopted her?”

“Inherited her.”

“Your brother?”

“Neighbor. Asked me to dog-sit while she went on vacation. Had a heart attack in Florida. Died. Nobody wanted the dog.”

“Oh my god.”

The porch was a nice warm-up to the heat, but the porch has fans and shade. Walking down the steps and out into the backyard is like stepping into that oven Ziggy was so impressed with.

“You okay in the heat?” I ask as I head down the stairs to the yard.

“If I’m not, it won’t be anything worse than what we’ve already dealt with.”

True enough.

I reach the bottom of the steps and whistle. “Jessica, come meet a new friend.”

A low growl from beneath the covered porch is my answer.

Dammit, dog .

She chewed through the lattice under the porch again. Don’t have time to get that fixed—and reinforced—before I leave. “C’mon, Jessica. She’s very nice, and she’s probably the kind of pushover who’ll bribe you with treats.”

Ziggy watches me as I get down on all fours and peer under the porch .

A flat, dark gray face at the front of a tan barrel body stares back at me.

Fuckin’ make me come out , that face says. I fuckin’ dare you .

Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t ask a pregnant woman to take care of a hell-beast .

I wouldn’t if I didn’t know this dog’s secret.

I’m the only one she has a problem with. Everyone else is great.

Until I ask if she wants a new home where she’d like her owners better.

Then she makes me feel like an asshole for suggesting it.

I lost my human and now you want to give me away instead of letting me grieve by being an asshole to you?

Swear on my favorite cleats, that’s what it looks like she’s thinking.

If I get picked up by a team overseas, figuring out what to do with Jessica will be the hardest part.

Yeah. Finding a house for a dog who hates me.

That’ll be the hardest part.

Other than, you know, deciding what to do with my brother’s house.

“You want a treat?” I ask her.

She replies by snorting dog snot all over my face.

I straighten and wipe my cheek, grateful she didn’t hit my mouth too.

Jessica stalks out from under the porch, head high. She kicks dirt in my direction, turns and starts to sashay toward the steps, but suddenly stops.

I’ve had the dog for two months, and already, I know when the wheels are turning in her head.

They’re turning now.

She looks back at me, then at Ziggy .

“You want a new friend?” I ask the dog.

She turns her back on me again, and I swear the little beast farts at me.

But she’s turning on the charm for Ziggy. You can tell by the way Ziggy’s face melts into a smile as she sinks to her knees in the grass seemingly without a care for grass stains on her skirt.

“Oh my god, you’re adorable. What kind of a doggie are you?”

Jessica trots— trots —to Ziggy, flops on her back, and pants as she silently begs for belly pets.

She’s an asshole.

That’s what kind of dog she is.

“French bulldog,” I supply. “She can be a handful.”

Jessica snorts at me, which makes Ziggy laugh.

“Usually just for me,” I mutter.

“Look at you!” Ziggy says to her. “You’re the cutest thing. Yes, you are.”

“You like dogs?”

“My parents have always had dogs. I made a few friends in various ports that had pets so I could get my fix while I was working for the cruise line. And sometimes I’d get to pet the dogs that guests would bring on.”

“She might get mad when I leave. Jessica is the hardest part of house-sitting.”

The hell-beast snorts at me again, which makes Ziggy laugh.

“My sister is a dog whisperer. If I have trouble, she’ll help.”

“You couldn’t live with her?” Fuck . Now I sound like I don’t want her here.

Problem is really that I want her here too much .

Boundaries, asshole .

I’m not hitting on a pregnant woman today.

Or ever.

Ziggy shakes her head, apparently not offended. “She’s sharing an apartment with three friends. Also doesn’t want to move back in with our parents. Even if she’d take those cushions on your porch furniture in a heartbeat.”

Jessica is flopped out on her back in the I’m never moving again position while Ziggy scratches her belly, murmuring what I recognize as terms of endearment in Spanish.

So Ziggy loves the kitchen. And the sunroom. And the dog.

She fits here better than I do.

Hitting on her is a bad idea.

Fuck, even crushing on her is a bad idea.

But when I picture her sitting on the couch, playing a game on her phone or watching TV, rubbing her belly, bringing new life into this house after all of the sadness it’s seen the past few years?—

Yeah.

I want her to stay here.

I want to know something good is here.

“There’s a spare car in the garage you can use,” I tell her.

“Your brother’s?”

I wince and look up at the sky, then jerk my thumb behind me. “Other neighbor’s. That side. Had a stroke about four months ago. Didn’t make it. Her kids didn’t need an extra Buick, so they told me to keep it.”

She lifts her head and looks straight at me. “Can I ask you a blunt and possibly awkward question?”

“Five.”

“Five? ”

“Five. My brother, the neighbor who was Jessica’s owner, the Buick neighbor, the mailman?—”

“ Your mailman ?”

“Three houses down. Heart attack while he was delivering mail. I was driving by when it happened. Did CPR. His family gave me a bunch of his paintings as a unique thank-you. They’re in the basement.”

“And the fifth?”

“Dude I knew on my team back in England.”

She stares at me.

I’m not looking at her, but I can feel it.

“Did they give you?—”

“You don’t want to know.”

Yes, they sent me something of his.

They sent me some of his ashes and asked me to scatter them on various rugby pitches across the US.

His dream was to play on every rugby pitch around the globe. Seemed fitting to scatter his ashes as far and wide as they could.

And because I’m me, of course I helped.

Quietly. It’s apparently illegal or something. But dude had a dream, and we’ll all be ash one day anyway, so why not? He had former teammates in at least six other countries who did the same.

“And how long since the first one…?” Ziggy prompts.

“About nine months. My brother.”

“And the last?”

“Jessica’s owner. Two months ago.”

“Are you okay? Do you have enough friends right now?”

No, I’m not fucking okay. But I’m trying to be. “I’m looking forward to Europe.”

She’s still watching me .

Fuck . “If you don’t want to live in a death house or a death neighborhood?—”

“I’m not that kind of superstitious.”

“The neighborhood is mostly older people who’ve been retired for a long time, so it’s not like this is weird. Except for Caden. He was just—shitty genes. All around.” Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. “It’s not cursed. Even if you’re not superstitious, it can be a lot. And if you change your mind, I have a backup kennel for Jessica and it’s not a big deal if the house is empty for a few weeks. I know most of the contractors pretty well. They can handle things.”

“Jessica doesn’t look like the type who’d enjoy the kennel.”

“It’s doggy daycare with friends during the day and fancy bedrooms at night.” And Ziggy is absolutely correct that Jessica would hate it.

I left her there for our last two away matches and when I picked her up, she took a shit under my bed every night for a week.

Both times.

Back-to-back.

I took her to the vet to make sure she hadn’t eaten anything wrong, and all the vet said was sometimes dogs act out when their situation changes .

“If you’re still up for house-sitting and dog-sitting, I’m sure she’d be happy to have you,” I add.

“I think we’ll get along fabulously, don’t you, Jessica?” Ziggy says to my dog.

Jessica pants happily in the sunshine.

Ziggy smiles at her.

There I go again, thinking of Ziggy inside the house. Hand on her lower back while she stirs something on the stove. Laughing at something on social media. Crawling into bed with me with a smile. Pretty wife growing a baby. Happy dog who doesn’t snort in my face or fart at me at every opportunity. Laughter and smiles and hope and peace and happiness.

New life.

The aching, desperate want in my gut hits me like a sucker punch.

Not my life.

It’s not in the cards.

Never know who’ll get sick. Who’ll get hurt. Who’ll leave you next.

One of my teammates asked me the other day if I’m running away.

I lied and said no.

“My plane takes off on Friday,” I tell Ziggy. “I’ll get you a key so you can move in at your convenience after that.”

She blinks at me. “Okay.”

“So I’m not in your way. Before I leave.” I’m fumbling over my words again, but this time, I know why.

I like her.

I shouldn’t.

She’s given me zero signs that she’s into me.

Why would she be?

She’s carrying some other guy’s baby, and he’s not in the picture.

Tells a story all on its own, doesn’t it?

So I’ll do the right thing and give her space.

“I’ll leave enough dog food and treats for while I’m gone. And her schedule. You have my number if you have any questions.” I pointedly gesture toward the front yard.

A not-so-subtle now that we have that over with, get the hell out .

So I can head out to the garage and beat the shit out of my punching bag.

She slowly rises, and when she sways on her feet, I go on high alert, shifting to the balls of my feet, ready to leap into action if she faints or gets sick or stumbles.

Ready to hold her like I did last night when the crow almost attacked her.

Smell her hair.

Feel her curves.

She notices.

The part where I’m trying to move to help her anyway.

You can tell by the way she holds out a hand to stop me. “I’m okay. Normal head rush after sitting on my legs. Thank you for the tour. And for a place to stay. I met my real estate agent at lunch today, and I’m sure I’ll find a place of my own very soon.”

I grunt like a complete dumbass who suddenly can’t remember words.

She bends and gives Jessica one last belly rub. “See you soon, pup. Be good, okay?”

Jessica grins.

Jessica-speak for not for this guy, but I’ll smile like I’m agreeing .

Ziggy pauses as she heads past me and waits until I look back at her.

“If you change your mind and don’t want me to stay here, just let me know. I appreciate not having to move in with my parents, but it also wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“House needs a sitter. You need a place to stay. It’s a good arrangement.”

She studies me while sweat drips down my back .

July heat or her seeing right through me to all of the fantasies I’m having about her that I need to stop having?

Hopefully the heat.

She nods and gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll take good care of Jessica. And the house.”

I nod.

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something else but shakes her head, gives me one last smile, and then heads for the gate to let herself out.

While I stand there like an awkward asshole.

Jessica trots to my side, then squats and pees beside me while she glares at me.

“She’s coming back,” I mutter. “And I’m leaving. Okay?”

She snorts on my leg.

Spain will be so, so good for me.