Those were looks based on only the superficial, only the things our eyes could see.
This was something different.
Something better. Something powerful and slick as it swelled in the space between us.
Oh, how I wanted more.
As I took a step back, I refused to drop her gaze. The color climbed slowly up her cheeks.
I wanted more of that too.
“See you tomorrow, boss.”
Chapter Seven
Remi
I was thinking about blue-eyed dogs and blue-eyed men and how much trouble they’d caused in my life recently, and that was the only reason why I burned dinner.
“Holy shit, bug, what is that smell?”
I’d been staring at the tile backsplash, stirring absently, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the black edge accumulating on the pan of meat sauce. When Pops asked the question, I blinked down at the stovetop and grimaced. “Oh, um, it’s dinner. It’ll be fine. I can add more seasoning.”
I picked up the garlic salt and the Italian seasoning, and Pops quickly snatched them out of my hand. “I’ll do that,” he said, nudging me out of the way.
I sighed, handing over the wooden spoon with a lift of my eyebrows. “Fine. But you weren’t supposed to come over and do the work. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
“Oh, come on, I’ll get dementia faster if I sit here and do nothing. You don’t want that, do you?”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, but fine, you can finish dinner.”
As I sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, Pops brought the sauce to his lips, wincing slightly when he tasted it.
“What’s wrong? I didn’t burn it that much.”
“Just needs a little garlic, is all.” On his way to the pantry cabinet, he patted my shoulder. “How was work today?”
“Weird.”
“What did Ness do now?”
I laughed. “Nothing, actually. It was just ... weird.”
He must have caught something in my tone, because Pops gave me a long look over the rim of his glasses. “Something you want to talk about, bug?”
I shook my head. “I’ll get it figured out.”
Maybe.
Probably.
It was so much better when Archer stayed in his damn lane. We had roles now—I was professional and didn’t hit anyone. He was smug and annoying and tried everything he could to get under my skin.
If he was thoughtful and did nice things, where the hell did that leave us?
Nowhere I wanted to be, thank you very much.
Except hewasdoing nice things. In another life, Archer must have been a professional dog wrangler. I didn’t know how to process what had happened. Couldn’t even think about trying, because my entire life was a wobbly house of cards. One stiff blow—or dog rescue, as it were—would knock the entire damn thing over, and I’d be left to pick up the pieces for everyone involved.