Me: How much do I owe you for that advice, Dr. D?
Dahlia: Hit up my CashApp. My broke ass will take anything.
Me: I got you.
Dahlia: No, for real. Save the money and get yourself a real therapist.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
I look up from my phone, and I wish I could decipher the inscrutable look on his face. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s my friend,” I reply, as I tuck the phone in my pocket. “My car is on the other side of the lot. I’ll just—”
“We can ride together in my truck, and I’ll bring you back here when we’re done.”
I shake my head. “That would be a waste of time. My apartment is closer to the farm than Bellevue.”
He looks intrigued by this revelation. “You’re living in Seattle now?”
“In First Hill. It’s a studio. Nothing spectacular, but I got pretty lucky on the location.”
He raises an eyebrow as he considers this information. “We can drop your car at your apartment, then head to the farm from there.”
I raise an eyebrow, feeling a little off my game now. I can’t figure out if he’s trying to be helpful or if he’s trying to find out where I live. Or if he just wants to spend some time with me.
“Are you trying to get me alone again?”
He flashes me a sweet, almost bashful smile. “You know me. I’m a helpful kind of guy.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, nodding as I recall the six orgasms he helped me achieve. “All right. I guess I’ll meet you at my place.”
Despite my trepidation, I provide him the address for my apartment building, so he can follow me to my place. Somewhere along I-90, our cars get separated by traffic. But when I arrive in front of my building thirty minutes later, I’m not surprised to find him leaning against his truck.
He’s engrossed in something on his phone, so he doesn’t notice me as I park my car on the street, a couple spots behind him. Gary hops out of the backseat, and I clip on his leash as we head toward Max. When he sees us approaching, his face splits into an amazing smile.
“Hey.”
His voice sounds dreamy, as if he’s surprised to see me, though it’s only been half an hour since we left the farmers’ market.
“Hey,” I say, unable to suppress a grin. “Okay, you’re going to have to lift Gary into your truck. He’s a senior citizen, and he weighs eighty-two pounds. I can’t lift him that high.”
“Gary?” he says, glancing at my Golden Retriever. “Like the snail?”
“Yep. He’s lazy as fuck. I can barely get him to take walks.”
He laughs as he opens the door for the rear cab of his truck. “Come here, boy,” he calls to Gary.
Without hesitation, Gary goes to him, the graying fur around his muzzle crinkling into his characteristic goofy grin. Max wraps one arm around my dog’s chest and the other around his back legs, lifting him into the backseat with ease. Gary immediately makes himself comfortable.
“Gary’s previous owner died a few months ago,” I say, reaching up to scratch behind his floppy ears. “They lived on a farm in Eugene. He used to take Gary everywhere with him in his pickup. I wonder if he’s feeling nostalgic.”
A swell of emotion rises inside me as I remember the reasons I chose Gary. The rescue told me he had lived on a farm, and since I occasionally work on one, I thought we’d be a good fit. That he was grieving the loss of his previous human only made me want him more. His advanced age, and the likelihood he might not be adopted quickly, sealed the deal for me.
Max opens the passenger door for me. “Come here, girl,” he says, in the same sing-song voice he used to call Gary a moment ago.
I roll my eyes as I close the rear door and climb up into the passenger seat. “Easy there, bud. I think we’ve already established who’s the dog in this relationship.”
“Oof!” he says, treating me to a moment of his deep, sexy laugh before he shuts the passenger door.
He rounds the back of the truck, double-checking the tailgate is secure, and I can still barely hear him laughing. I wonder if he thought my joke was that funny, or he’s amused by the implication we’re in a relationship. Obviously, I know we’re not, but do I need to clarify that?
God, my second-guessing around this guy is mentally exhausting. Dahlia would have something to say about that.
He’s still chuckling softly to himself as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Enter the address for the farm into Google Maps.”
He unlocks his phone and hands it to me. I stare at his outstretched palm as if it’s a stick of dynamite.
“Is this some sort of trick?”
“My dash-mount broke a few days ago. You’ll have to hold the phone and let me know if I should take I-5.” He smiles as if I’m not looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Don’t worry. I trust you with my phone. We’re in a relationship, remember?”
I shove his hand away, and the glare on my face turns into a satisfied smirk as his phone falls into the footwell. “I knew you would take that joke the wrong way.”
“I’m just teasing you,” he says, reaching down to retrieve the phone. “But seriously, should I take 99 or I-5?”
I roll my eyes as he holds the iPhone out to me again.
“Fine,” I say, taking it from him and staring at the home screen for a moment.
The front-facing cameras are covered with a black sticker. And, aside from the Phone and Messages apps, there are only six other icons: Weather, Camera, Spotify, Google Maps, Settings, and the Safari browser.
“Is this a new phone?” I ask, unable to hide my confusion.
“I’m a digital minimalist,” he replies without a trace of irony.
A digital minimalist? Is that a technical term for a mysterious man with a data science degree?
No wonder he had no problem handing me his phone. Technically, I could open his communication apps and snoop on him, but that’s not my style. I’ve never even looked through my parents’ phones.
But there’s something unsettling about holding this in my hand and knowing that, even if I wanted to snoop on him, I probably wouldn’t find anything personal.
I touch the Google Maps icon and type in the address. But my finger pauses over the “search” button. I’m about to enter my work address into an iPhone that looks like it was just purchased off the rack at Burners “R” Us.
“What’s wrong? Did you forget the address?”
I shake my head and tap the button to submit the request. He already has my home address. He can easily google the address for Wallingford Honey Company. If he’s a serial killer, there’s not much I can do now.
“I haven’t worked there long,” I say, turning the screen toward Max, so he can see the traffic congestion between here and the farm.
“Fucking I-5.” He shakes his head in dismay at the red line on the map. “99 it is.”
I place his phone in the cupholder with the screen facing toward him. The temptation of holding it in my hand for the next fifteen minutes would be too great.