And that’s when I have my best idea yet. I’d thought joining the Denver Disc Dogs would only check item number seven off my list. Now? I’m gunning for number one.
I want to change someone’s life for the better, and I’m determined that someone will be Logan. And I know exactly who can help me do it.
Emmy.
Chapter Eight
Logan
“Bean, don’t even think about it,” Stevie says in a warning voice.
I glance over the top of my iPad at the dog. Bean hunches and wags the tip of her tail, looking guilty.
“She was trying to scratch around the pavers,” Stevie tells me.
We’re sitting at our round metal patio table the morning after the gumbo feast, drinking coffee and reading in the shade of the faded and half-broken umbrella over our heads. Well, I’m reading. Stevie is sketching, one of her favorite hobbies.
Ever since we were kids, she’d doodled in notebooks, on scraps of paper, and sometimes on me. I had to throw out a favorite pair of jeans in high school when she’d doodled on my leg.
After Bean got to Rosa’s chickens the other night, we’d stuffed several pavers into the hole in the fence. Now Bean’s trying to finagle a way around it. The hens next door squawk softly, a constant temptation. From Bean’s point of view, they’re in constant danger of wandering off and getting lost.
“Moe needs to actually fix the fence,” I say referring to our landlord. “Along with the hall closet door, the water damage in the ceiling in my room, and the floor gouge in the living room.”
She groans. “Maybe we should move out.”
“Or . . . maybe we should buy a house.”
I keep my voice casual and wait for a response, still pretending to read. Stevie keeps her eyes on Bean, who’s moved on to sniffing other likely spots in the fence.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “We can’t even keep up with this place.”
My heart, which had started to beat a little faster when she didn’t immediately shoot my idea down, sags in my chest.
My friend and unintentional tormentress looks casually beautiful this morning. She’s still wearing her pajamas—a pair of worn flannel pants and a T-shirt—and her hair is a wild pile on top of her head. But the sun gleams off the blonde strands, and her blue eyes glint when she has a new idea as she draws, and her mouth twitches while she tries to recreate whatever image is in her head. I wish, a lot more often than I should, that I could touch those lips—
Stevie slams her notebook shut, making me jump and Bean jerk around to see what happened. I blink, feeling inexplicably guilty, as if she could hear my thoughts and didn’t approve. At all.
“Let’s go for a run,” she says. “Do you want to go for a run?”
“Um, what?” I stutter.
“Run. You know, that sweaty activity you do almost every day.”
In other words, exercise. Also known as number nine on her list. “Oh, run. I thought you said bun. I was wondering if you meant like you wanted a cinnamon bun or a burger bun or maybe a hot crossed bun. I thought we’d be walking to Cake Crumbs.” Which is a terrific little bakery right here in Park Hill.
She groans at my bad joke. “I’ll go put my running shoes on. Maybe some exercise will chase the fowl-minded thoughts out of Bean.”
I stare at her, barely registering the pun. “Running shoes? You don’t own running shoes.”
She grins and tilts her head, holding her notebook against her chest like a schoolgirl. “Shows you how much you know. I went to Denver Running Company and got a pair this week.”
“What kind?”
“Um . . . Brooks? I think.”
I nod. “A solid choice. Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s start with City Park. I don’t know how long I’ll make it. I might even collapse before we get where we’re going.”
“If you do, I’ll carry you home. I never leave a woman behind.” As I say it, I really try not to let my thoughts dwell on Stevie’s, uh, behind.
“Glad to know that. I feel better already.” She hitches her pajama pants up, but not before I glimpse a sliver of smooth, pale skin below her shirt and above the trim of her panties.
I bury my nose in the Sunday New York Times article about turtles in the Indian Ocean for another minute before going to change myself. Fascinating things, turtles. So ancient. So deliberate and non-spontaneous. So . . . not tantalizing. Unlike Stevie.
As my housemate picks up her coffee mug, calls to Bean, and pads inside, I think she might actually be killing me. Not intentionally. Just by being herself.
And if she’d realize that she loves me as much as I love her—well then, I’d die a happy man.
Chapter Nine
Stevie
Logan and I meet in the living room about ten minutes after I suggested the run. Bean stands between us, her head turning one way and then another, clearly getting the message we’re going somewhere. I don’t have her harness or leash, but somehow, she knows anyway. Dogs always know.
Logan looks me up and down and frowns. “Are you . . . sure you’re ready?”
He wears his usual running garb: thin running shorts, one of those shirts that wicks sweat away or whatever, and his expensive running shoes, the one thing he’s always willing to spend a lot of money on. I check myself out. I’m in a pair of pajama shorts, a cotton T-shirt, and my new shoes.
“Is this not okay?” I ask.
He squints. “It’s fine, but if you like running, you might want to invest in some clothes made from sweat wicking fabrics.”
I snort and head for the door. “This isn’t going to last long enough for me to sweat anyway. I expect I’ll pass out after half a mile.”
He laughs. “I doubt it. You’re fit from all the walking and bike riding you do. Jogging won’t be a big jump.”
Ohhhh, how wrong he is. A little more than one half-mile into the jaunt, I’m ready to faint. Death is clearly the next step.
“I . . . have . . . to . . . walk,” I say as we reach the fountain behind the museum. At least I’ll die in City Park. Could be worse.
I put my hands on my knees, panting, and then slump onto a bench. Bean stops and looks at me. She’s panting, too, but she wasn’t having any trouble at all keeping up with Logan. As for my friend, he slows his easy pace, walks back to Bean and me, and sits beside me. He puts his arm across the back, not really even breathing hard.
“You . . . suck,” I say.
He pats my shoulder in response, and I cringe at the sweat he probably came into contact with. Cotton T-shirts, I’ve learned, do not wick. They soak.
While Logan scans the view of the mountains, and I try not to actually perish, a couple of families enjoy the fountain beside us. It’s one of those features that randomly shoots sprays of water into the air, and the kids run through them. In this case, six kids are fully suited up in bathing suits and one even wears goggles and a set of water wings for some reason. Bean lies at our feet and watches them, too.
Logan chuckles as one of the kids shrieks. A spray apparently hit a little guy square in the face. It must not have hurt because the boy laughs delightedly. The girl with water wings refuses to get wet at all. She stands at the side, watching. Why do I have a feeling that would have been me back in the day?