Page 11 of When We Had Forever
Longing rises tight in my chest. For a moment, I’m seeing another dog entirely, one with a copper coat and wretched breath. One I buried years ago.
God, I’m so damn tired of burying things.
When I blink again, reality returns. What is wrong with me? This poor creature hardly resembles Penny at all.
I push away the hollow ache of loss and crouch. The dog is curled between a bag of mulch and a stack of empty flowerpots. No collar. No visible wounds, either, but she’s panting as if she just sprinted across miles of forest. Another whine comes from deep in her throat.
I reach out. Years ago, someone dumped a husky on the shelter’s doorstep who’d keened just like this. Darlene had taken one look and diagnosed him with peritonitis, then made a phone call that had gotten the dog into emergency surgery, where he’d had a broken chicken bone removed from his intestines. It hadn’t mattered that Seagrove’s only veterinarian had been the best man in a beachside wedding that evening. Darlene had worked her magic, the way she always does.
Now a fire lights in my muscles. I don’t know if this dog is in the same predicament, but if so, I need to get her to Darlene. Immediately.
The dog sniffs my outstretched fingers, then licks. It’s the only encouragement I need to scoop her up. She’s all deadweight, but I stagger around the house to the garage and settle her into the passenger seat of my Genesis. If her condition is as critical as the husky’s, every moment counts.
Within seconds, I’m rocketing from the driveway.
Maybe I shouldn’t roar across town at twice the speed limit, but every time the dog whimpers, a hot spark flares in my chest. If Penny had ever wandered off, I would’ve wanted someone to help her. To do anything.
And, if I’m honest, this is the first time since that horrible phone call that I’ve felt in control of anything. The first time in six months I’ve actually had a say.
The speedometer’s needle edges higher. “Hold on, girl.” I take the turnoff onto Darlene’s street thirty miles an hour faster than legally permitted. “Help’s coming.”
As trees whip past the window, I hope like hell that’s not a lie.
BEFORE
Michael accelerates down Main Street with one hand draped over the steering wheel, apparently every bit as comfortable piloting sports cars as he is mocking strange girls and being hit in the face with pies.
I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks. Oddly, the silence doesn’t prickle, like it would with most strangers, but waits with a sort of held, anticipatory breath. The interlude gives me a chance to study him, too. To note the finer details, like the fact that he wears no jewelry, except for a twisted silver necklace that bridges the grooves between his collarbones and muscled chest, which are just visible through the V-neck of his black shirt.
He’s dressed more casually today, his sleeves short, his jeans well lived-in, suggesting that yesterday’s business attire was for his coworkers’ benefit. My attention settles on his hands. Like most men’s, they’re square palmed, but the fingers skimming the dash are long, almost delicate. As with his face, I find the contrast compelling.
Most noticeably, though, Michael Drake radiates a...steadiness. I can tell by the way he drives. He seems like the kind of person who trusts himself. Who’s never confused by anything.
As he steers onto Highway 109, he catches me staring. It’s the second time now, but I don’t bother to hide it.
His smile reappears, so readily that I wonder if I imagined that moment of seriousness earlier, when I asked about his name. “What?” he says. “Am I not what you expected?”
“You’re really not. At all.”
“Hmm. Is that a good thing? Or are you about to insult me again?”
“I...” I grope for something that won’t give me away. “...Just wasn’t prepared for the lack of frosting, that’s all.”
He chuckles. “Should I have showed up covered in whipped cream?”
“I would’ve been impressed if you had.”
“Well, damn. I considered it. I came about this close.” He holds his thumb and forefinger up. “But I figured I might not be able to defend myself if you hadn’t had breakfast yet. And we’ve already established that a guy can’t be too careful. Especially around nerds.” His voice drops to a stage whisper. “I’ve heard they’re dangerous.”
His teasing unwinds something in me, and I snicker at the visual of me clambering over the gearshift to lick pie off his shoulder. “You areextremelysure of yourself, aren’t you?”
He raises a golden eyebrow. “Should I not be?”
It ought to sound cocky as hell, but it doesn’t. He says it like he’s genuinely curious as to whether I find him lacking in some way.
I absolutely do not. But it won’t hurt him to wonder.
“Whatwereyou expecting?” he says when the silence grows.
