We made dinner together, Lucas in charge of grilling the skewers of steak and onion, while I tossed cherry tomatoes in a hot pan with some olive oil, fresh garlic, and lots of parsley and thyme. I boiled fingerling potatoes in a brine of water and salt, then steamed them for a few minutes in their skins, making them perfectly tender inside. I then tossed them with a little brown butter and cracked pepper. With the kabobs, it was a perfect meal to eat outdoors, under the fairy lights.
I’d wisely switched to ice water after my second cocktail, and I could see a two-drink maximum was going to have to be the new standard around Lucas—especially when he was wearing navy blue. It was almost impossible to stop myself from crawling across the table, curling into his lap, and licking his face. Maybe I should have made the time to grind a bit earlier—it might have taken the edge off.
Once dinner was over and we’d switched over to espresso (made with the ancient espresso maker my grandfather had in the kitchen since it was built), we just sat and talked for hours—the kind of hours you can afford when you have zero cares in the world and no responsibilities. We had those cares, yet we still stayed up talking well into the evening.
We moved inside when the night air got chilly, and I was curled up on what I’m sure in its day was called a davenport, across from Lucas, who was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, which was crackling away comfortably. Ella and Louie were on the record player now, singing “You Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
And speaking of records, for the record, no redhead should ever sit in front of a fire. Because it’s just not fair to the fire. Honestly, the way the firelight caught his hair, throwing flashes of burnt orange and whiskey honey around the room, it was just . . . not fair.
As I was ruminating on this, my phone rang. Surprised, considering it was well after nine, I looked at the phone and saw that it was Lou.
“Hey, Lou, what’s shaking?” I asked, laughing when I realized I was speaking in Rat Pack. Lucas just shook his head, snapped his fingers, and pointed at me. Ring a ding.
“Hey, Chloe, you ready to get your first dog?”
“Huh?” I asked gracefully.
“Got a call about a dog they picked up in Salinas. Looks like it might have been a bait dog, lots of old scars.”
“Okay,” I said, clutching the phone.
“They’re gonna hold him for you to pick up tomorrow morning; I’ll email you the details. Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeated, eyes wide.
“Easy, princess—you’ll be fine.”
“But we’re not ready yet, there’s still so much to be done and—”
“You’ve got the pens ready, right?”
“Yes.”
“And food and water?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” he said, his voice kind. “You can’t always wait until everything’s perfect—sometimes it happens when it’s not supposed to. You roll with it, right?”
“Right,” I whispered, looking at Lucas, who was by now on the couch next to me.
“I’ll call you in the morning, and don’t worry so much. You’re going on your first freedom ride! Enjoy it!”
“I will, Lou, and thanks for calling. I’ve got this, no problem.”
“I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wear your tiara—that dog’s already gonna be spooked enough as it is.”
“You’re pretty funny for an old hippie,” I cracked, and he hung up the phone laughing.
“What’s going on?” Lucas asked.
I sat back against the couch. “I’m getting my first dog tomorrow—I have to pick him up in Salinas.”
“That’s great! Congratulations!” he said. “Want me to go with you?”
I did. I really did. But I needed to do this on my own. So I shook my head and politely declined.
“Well, if you change your mind, just call me. I’m taking the late shift tomorrow night, so my morning’s free. You let me know.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.” I nodded my head vigorously.
“Well, then, I’ll let you get some sleep for your big day.”
He helped me bring the cups into the kitchen, then I walked him to the door. He lingered a bit in the open doorway. “So listen, tonight. I had a really good time.”
“As good as paddleboarding?” I asked, smiling up at him.
“Different kind of good time.” He nodded, and leaned down. I held my breath. But all he did was place a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Good luck tomorrow. You call me if you decide you need some help, promise?” he whispered.
I could only nod. Because his lips on my forehead were, in fact, enough to make me breathless.
“Night, Chloe.”
Then he was off the porch and into his truck, starting the ignition. As his taillights splashed across the back of my convertible, I realized . . . Fudge—I can’t pick up a pit bull in a convertible!
“Hey, Lucas, wait! I need your truck tomorrow!” I called out, running after him.
Ah, well, you couldn’t do everything alone.