That you’re the first for everything, I think to myself. “Nothing,” I say.
“Ah,” he says. “I see.”
“I guess I’m just trying to get my head on straight.”
He squeezes his arm against me. I love it when he does that. I feel absolutely protected.
“If you’re anything like me, it’s going to take you a few days to adjust to the new time zone. I remember when I first traveled abroad to Australia for the Rugby World Cup, I was an absolute wreck. Couldn’t even tie my own laces. No wonder we lost.”
I smile against him, then turn it into a kiss, my lips brushing the side of his chest. “I have a hard time believing you could lose at anything.”
He grunts. “Then I shant ruin the pedestal you’ve placed me on, darling.”
I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat, his rhythmic stroking of my hair. I’m almost falling asleep again, dreams coming at me in dark flashes, wanting to bring me under, when his alarm goes off.
“Can’t we ignore it?” I mutter.
“We can ignore the alarm,” he says. He adjusts himself just as Lionel jumps on the bed, shuffling his way between us. “But we can’t ignore him.”
“I just want to sleep,” I say, seconds before I get a paw to the face.
“Aye,” he says, “but we have a big day.”
My tired brain jogs over the plans we’ve made. Or plans that he has made for me. He has rugby practice at two, and he wanted to bring me to the shelter beforehand and introduce me to the people that work there. I guess he feels bad about leaving me in the apartment with the dogs all day, though I honestly wouldn’t mind. Lionel is just a big suck and Emily is warming up to me more and more.
Plus Lachlan’s apartment is absolutely stunning. I never pegged him as someone who would live in such a gorgeous, airy, historical place, but even after glancing out the front window and gazing at all the other stone houses on the street, it’s obvious everyone here lives somewhat like this. It’s kind of like living in a sexier episode of Downton Abbey.
But Amara, who I met briefly yesterday, seems nice enough, albeit a little quiet, and I know Lachlan wants me to feel important and involved. The last thing I want is for him to worry.
Somehow the two of us manage to remove ourselves from bed. Lionel is running around the living room like a crazed beast, mouth open in a permanent, gummy smile. While Lachlan slips on running shoes, loose black drawstring pants, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap, to take Lionel and Emily out for a quick walk, I putter around his sparse, elegant kitchen trying to figure out how to make a pot of coffee. I find a cupboard overflowing with stashes of tea, a small bag of coffee, and finally, a French press.
I sigh loudly in relief, putting the kettle on and taking a moment to take it all in. There’s usually so much you can tell about a person judging by where they live, but Lachlan’s apartment doesn’t give me much. He told me he’s been living here for about five years now, but to be honest, it’s not that much different in terms of personal touches than the short-term rental he had in San Francisco. There’s some art on the walls, vintage concert posters framed extravagantly in the living room, and subdued modern art in the dining room, but none of that really seems to reflect his personality. The same goes for his furniture. While it’s all very nice, the only thing that seems to have any reflection of him is the wood dining table, with its knots and grains and imperfections.