Page 210 of Wild Card 13

Lucy followed at a slower pace.

I opened the cabinet above the bar nook and took down two low glasses. Then the bottle from the shelf. Not the showy one Marco had given me after he declared my bar “emotionally underdeveloped.” The better one. The one my dad liked. The one I drank rarely because good bourbon tasted like it expected you to sit with yourself, and I usually preferred avoiding that.

Lucy leaned one hip lightly against the island, watching my hands.

“Still one cube?” I asked.

Her eyes lifted to my face.

I had meant it casually. Or as casually as a man could mean anything while making a drink from memory for the woman whose coffee order, burger toppings, favorite winter gloves, and old handwriting still lived in his head like facts carved into stone.

“One cube,” she confirmed.

I nodded and opened the freezer. My hand shook once aroundthe ice tray. I put one large cube in each glass and poured hers first. Lighter than mine. Not weak. Just how she used to take it when we were too young to be drinking anything and old enough to believe stealing one inch of adulthood meant we owned the whole road.

I slid the glass across the island. She took it, her fingers brushing the side rather than mine.

“To one drink,” I said, lifting my glass.

Her eyebrows rose. “That sounds like you’re reminding yourself.”

“I am.”

She touched her glass to mine. The sound was quiet. Clean. It moved through the kitchen and settled somewhere behind my ribs.

“To one drink,” she echoed.

We carried them to the living room.

Dottie had taken the center of the couch and left no room for subtlety. Lucy paused. I looked at the dog, then at the open space on either side of her.

Dottie opened one eye.

“Move,” I told her.

She did not.

Lucy folded her arms loosely, amused despite herself. “Strong command presence.”

“I’m usually more intimidating.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m very intimidating. Ask rookies.”

“Rookies are young. Their brains aren’t fully developed.”

Dottie finally heaved herself up with a sigh so offended it deserved legal representation, stepped over the nearest throw pillow, and resettled on the far end of the sectional with her back to us.

I sat near the middle. Lucy sat beside me.

Not across the room. Not on the separate chair angled toward the fireplace. Beside me, close enough that I could feel the couch shift beneath her weight. Close enough that if either of us moved wrong, our knees would touch.

For a while, we drank in quiet. Not silence exactly. The fire made soft sounds. The house ticked with cold outside and heat inside. Dottie’s breathing deepened into the beginning of sleep, thentipped into a tiny snore that made Lucy glance over with fond embarrassment.

“She’s had a demanding evening,” I said.

“She slept under my desk for six hours.”