Page 35 of Shades of Grey & Gold

“I think he wants to go for a walk,” he says it to Bart more than he says it to me, which elicits even more tail wags.

His eyes burn into mine and the dog whines.

I roll my eyes and grab the leash from behind the door, slipping my feet into boots.

“Of course he does, and now that his favorite person is here, he’s ready to go.”

His laugh is low and warm and curls around me as I grab my keys off the table and hook Bart’s leash on. I lock the door and try not to think about how this feels like something.

A real thing. A normal thing.

A dangerous thing, maybe.

But not dangerous in the way Patrick was dangerous. Not sharp and small. This feels dangerous like standing at the edge of something beautiful and deciding if I trust my feet.

We make it halfway down the block before I realize Cal has taken Bart’s leash without asking.

Or maybe I handed it to him without realizing.

Either way, Bart is trotting beside him like the world has given him the missing puzzle piece. Cal holds his own coffee in one hand and the leash in the other, walking at a slower pace than I know he naturally would, because my legs are much shorter than his.

“So,” I say, because silence with Cal is no longer awkward but it is incredibly loud in a different way. “Do you frequently show up at women’s houses with coffee before the day begins?”

“Just one woman.”

My eyes cut to his.

He is looking straight ahead, the corner of his mouth doing that almost-smile thing.

My face heats.

“Smooth.”

“Honest.”

“Worse.”

His smile breaks loose at that, and I have to look away before I do something deranged, like tell him that smile has lit my world up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

The leaves are doing their early fall thing—gold and orange and little piles along the sidewalks. It’s cold enough that steam rises from each of our cups, but not cold enough to regret leaving the house.

It’s quiet and Cal glances over at me.

“What?”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?” I immediately change my face.

“The one where your brain is running three separate arguments at once.”

“It’s two, actually, and my grocery list.”

“I stand corrected. But this is why I didn’t text.”

I roll my eyes and my phone rings from my sweatshirt pocket.

There are very few people who would call me on a Saturday morning and only one of them does it frequently enough for me to expect it.