Page 93 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Your mother hugged me.”

“She did.”

“She called me family.”

“She did.”

He’s quiet for another mile. “Ruby?”

“Yeah?”

“I would like to bring your mother flowers. And fix her rooster clock. And possibly reorganize her pantry, if she’s amenable.”

I reach over and take his hand.

“She’d love that,” I say. “Except the pantry. Don’t touch her pantry.”

“Understood.”

We drive. His hand is warm in mine. The sun is setting and the road is straight, and somewhere behind us, my mother is probably already calling Aunt Carol to tell her that Ruby’s boyfriend is a wonderful man and he has excellent arms and does she know any good adoption agencies.

And ahead of us, home. The bakery. The apartment. The bed we share now. The life we’re building, one day at a time, in a space that used to feel too small for one person and now feels exactly the right size for two.

Plus a dog, eventually.

He’s going to hold me to that.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aiden

Warranty Void If Opened

I should start by saying that my intentions were good.

Ruby went to bed at 11:08 last night. She fell asleep at 11:23. Her breathing evened out by 11:31, and by midnight she was in the deep cycle—the one where she doesn’t move, where her hand curls against the pillow and her mouth goes slightly open.

I stayed until 12:15. Then I went downstairs to the bakery to do the overnight prep—flour measured, ovens checked, inventory reviewed. Normal. Routine.

At 1:47 a.m., I heard a sound in the alley.

Not the usual alley sounds—a car passing, rain on the fire escape. This was different. A whine. High, thin, and coming from behind the recycling bins.

I opened the back door.

There was a dog.

Not a golden retriever. Not the purebred, pedigree-verified, temperament-tested animal I’ve been researching for weeks. A mutt. Small—maybe thirty pounds, possibly less because she was very thin. Brown and white, with one ear that stood up and one that flopped over and ribs I could see through her fur.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

She was shaking. Not from cold—it wasn’t cold. From fear. The kind of shaking that comes from being outside too long, from not knowing where the next meal is, from being a small creature in a world that hasn’t been kind to small creatures.

I understood that feeling.

I crouched down. Held out my hand. She flinched—pulled back, pressed against the recycling bin, ears flat. I stayed still. Waited. The way Ruby waited for me, that first night, when I was the one crouched and shaking in a room I didn’t belong in.