Diesel issupposedto be with the other dogs, not in Hadley’s cabin begging for scraps.
He disappears down the hall.
Diesel follows him with the slow dignity of an old shepherd who is humoring a child.
The kitchen goes quiet.
I set my coffee down and Hadley does the same.
Neither of us moves toward the other right away.
We just stare.
She's the one who speaks first. "You sleep okay?"
"Some."
"Same."
I smile a little, so does she.
I stand up, cross the kitchen and stop in front of her with the counter at her back, and put my hand on her hip—not pulling, just resting.
Her hand comes up and settles on my chest, flat against the shirt, fingers spread.
I look down at her. "You're wearin' my shirt."
"I am."
"Don't take it off. It looks too damn good on ya."
"Sweetheart, I have to wash it eventually."
Sweetheart.
"Mine. You're keepin' it. Wash it when it needs it. It comes back to you."
She laughs—soft, breathless, surprised. The sound is thebestthing I've heard out of her since she got here.
I bend down and kiss her forehead, her temple, then I straighten up and put both hands on her hips and hold her there for a moment. "I need to tell you two things."
"Okay."
"Todd is gonna be handled within the week."
She doesn't react beyond a slow blink. "How?"
"You said you didn't want to know."
"I don't."
"Good."
She nods once.
Her thumb moves a small circle on my shirt, but her eyes don't leave mine.
"What's the second thing?"