I can’t get vengeance if it means hurting innocent bystanders.
It’s not about my attraction to her.
It’s about doing what’s right. What’s fully right.
If I can figure out what right is.
16
Sabrina
Normally on any given Sunday evening, Jitter and I would head out early to Silver Horn or the pub by City Hall and our statue dedicated to Ol’ Snaggletooth, our town’s proverbial original gold miner, and hang out with friends until it’s late enough that I know I’ll have regrets Monday morning.
But today’s been a hard day, and all I want to do is watch an old Razzle Dazzle film with a cup of coffee in hand and my dog acting like a pillow while I work up the nerve to follow through with the plan that my gut tells me is the key to getting my café back.
Unfortunately, nerves and coffee mean I sit still about as well as Theo, so I eventually shut off the movie that I can recite word for word and grab my coat and Jitter’s leash.
We need to go for a walk.
It doesn’t matter that Grandma took him for forty-three walks earlier, he’s still game. We head in the opposite direction of the dog park. It’s too dark to let Jitter off his leash, and even though he’s a solid deterrent to some of the larger mountain predators, I don’t want him running off and chasing deer or elk.
No one’s out and about. No neighbors to stop and casually chat with. I try calling an old college friend, and my call rolls straight to voicemail.
With the sun down, it’s cold. Like, breathe in and your nose hairs stick together cold. So Jitter and I cut the walk short.
We’re walking past the townhouse next to mine which currently houses someone I’d very much like to quit thinking about when the door opens, and there he is.
Six feet, four inches of lean bulk encased in blue jeans and boots under a thick wool coat—clean now, courtesy of my dry cleaning gift card, I hear—a gray wool scarf, and a black beanie. His beard is getting impossibly thicker, and he’s tugging on a black glove as he exits his townhouse, but he suddenly pauses and grips the doorframe.
Jitter barks and lunges for him.
I grab the leash tight. “Sit, Jitter,” I order, but the dog won’t listen.
He pulls harder to get to Grey.
The odd part, though?
Grey doesn’t react to us at all.
He stands there, gripping the doorframe, his eyes distant, breathing deeply like he’s in a trance, lit only by the porch light.
Jitter drags me all the way over to him, and no amount of bracing myself or tugging back works to stop my dog.
He’s determined.
Worse, he’s whining.
“Jitter,” I repeat.
He whines louder and nudges the boss-man’s free hand, which is curled into a fist.
“Grey?” I say hesitantly.
He sucks in one more breath and blows it out while Jitter lies down at his feet. “What?” he says.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t sound fine either.
Not even close.
My pulse kicks into high gear.
Something’s wrong.
He blinks twice, looks at me under the yellow glow of the porch light, goes ruddy in the cheeks, and turns like he’s planning on barricading himself inside and canceling the rest of his plans for the day.
Unfortunately for him, Jitter’s a big dog and still completely in the way, so Grey catches himself again in the doorway.
“Jitter likes you,” I say while I tug on the leash.
“Poor judge of character,” Grey mutters.
Oh, yes.
Something is very wrong.
Jitter whines at Grey’s feet again.
Grey grimaces, corrects his step, and climbs over Jitter, who whines again, to get back into his house.
“Hey. Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask as I finally manage to get my dog to his feet and out of the doorway.
This time, I don’t get an answer.
This time, he tries to shut the door in my face.
This is not the same man who was massaging my ass while he dry-humped me against half the kitchen the other day.
And lucky—or unlucky—for him, I’m not in any position to let him shut me out right now.
Not when he’s being so weird.
“Jitter, Grey has steak!” I say.
And yes, that has exactly the impact you’d think it would.
Jitter leaps on the door, shoves it open, and drags me inside.
Grey stumbles backward and grabs the handrail to the stairs like he’s afraid he’ll lose his balance if he doesn’t. “What are you doing?”
“My cousin Lucky’s a nurse. He’d kick my ass if I left you alone right now.”
“I’m fine.”
I don’t argue.
Instead, I dial Bean & Nugget. And of course, no one answers, because it’s after five on a Sunday.
No one’s at the café.
Which means I have no choice but to dial Zen’s personal number. The car wasn’t out front, so I assume they’re out somewhere with it.
“What are you doing?” Grey repeats.
He doesn’t advance on me. Doesn’t stare at me like he wants to take my clothes off. Doesn’t stare at me like he wants to stab me with a rusty spoon either.
He just looks off-kilter, and I don’t like it.
Zen answers on the sixth ring. “Sabrina Sullivan. This is a surprise. If you’re planning to ruin Uncle Grey’s life and quit, can you do me a favor and write him a super-long resignation letter? Like, twenty pages or something. Anything to stall you from making this decision.”
Do they know what I’m planning?
Are they acting like they like me so that I don’t do it?
Or have I finally gotten close enough to Zen’s inner circle to get the full force of the sass they usually aim at Grey?
Who’s playing games now, dammit? “Your uncle just had an out-of-body experience in his doorway, and he says he’s fine but he’s clearly not, and I think he’s either mad at me or doesn’t trust me since everyone in town seems to think we’re sleeping together and that’s my fault, so please come check on him so I can quit worrying about him.”
“I’m fine,” Grey snaps.
“Oh, that’s his stubborn ass voice,” Zen replies cheerfully.
“It’s charming. Can you please come home and check on him?”
“Probably just got lightheaded.”
“Does that happen often?”
“I’m standing right here,” Grey says.
“And you’re using your stubborn ass voice,” I snap back. “Also, my dog is freaking out, which means someone else needs to check on you.”
“Wow. This is fascinating,” Zen says. “I’ll text him a picture of penis latte art, and if he doesn’t flip me off in response, make him lie down and put his feet up.”
I almost choke on my tongue. Make him lie down and put his feet up? Are they pranking me, or is something legit wrong here? “Oh my god.”
“I know. Penis latte art is extreme, but I like to remind him life could be worse.”
“The other thing.”
“Oh. That. He won’t die.”
“Oh my god.”
“Still standing right here.” Grey presses his palms into his eyes, clearly standing on his own just fine, but Zen isn’t making me feel any better.
Nor is Jitter.
My dog is still laying across Grey’s feet, whining and pressing his body to Grey’s legs while the man himself leans against the wall under the stairs.
“For real, he’s only had one trip in an ambulance, and his stress levels are much lower here compared to then, even if he’s making things worse on himself with this Super Villain Man plan.”
“I swear to caramel macchiatos, if you’re fucking with me right now—”
Grey moves, and I cut myself off to point him toward the couch. “Lay down.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“He’s grumpy again. Like, worse grumpy. Is that a good or a bad sign?” I ask Zen.
“He has a minor circulation issue that may or may not clear itself up if he can reduce his stress levels, so he should probably not be grumpy. Did you do something?”
“Are you helping or hurting with the stress levels?”
“Helping. Duh. You? What did you do to stress him out? Did you pull out the powdered cheese again?”
Am I having blood pressure issues now too? I do believe I am. “I walked my dog.”