“Not that I remember.”
“Mom.” I groan, long and annoyed. “Come on. Help me out here. The thing is stinking up my truck.”
“Why would you have a dog in your truck that you think belongs to me, Kade?”
My throat constricts and it takes everything in me to answer her.
“Drove by the farm. Dog ran out in front of my truck.”Deflect. Pivot. Distract.“If the dog’s yours, you seriously need to get the fucking thing a collar, or leash, or fuck, a prison cell. Thing’s a menace.”
“Kade William Archer! Watch your language!” she snaps, then sighs. “What’s your dog look like?”
“It’s not mine,” I huff indignantly and gently shove the pup from my lap. “Small. Brown. Long tail. Dumbass ears. Looks like a cross between a dirty goat and a suicidal rabbit.”
“Oh!” She gasps. “That one!”
My jaw drops. “It’s seriously yours?”
“Could be,” she says brightly. “Might not. You’ll just have to bring it by so I can be sure.”
“Or, andhear me out, I know it’s a wild concept, but you could describe the actual dog you lost.”
“Sweetheart, I keep a lot of animals, you know this. They’re all free range. It’s impossible to keep track of their comings and goings.”
“Free range? Don’t you just mean outdoor?” The camera flashes with a photo. “I’m texting you a picture.”
“That could help, but sometimes these phones distort colors and whatnot.”
“Brown is brown,” I mutter, sending the picture. A moment passes. “So, is it yours?”
“I didn’t get it.”
I stare at the read receipt. “Yes, you did.”
“Well, I forgot my glasses.”
“You don’t wear glasses.”
“I think I might need to, because all I see is a dark brown blob.”
“Because that’s what it is!” I choke on a curse, drop my phone to my lap, and rake both hands through my hair, pulling hard. “So help me God—”
“You’ll just have to bring it to me,” she says sweetly, like I don’t know exactly what she’s doing. Like she didn’t raise me. “Please, Kade.”
My chest convulses and I press a hand to it, my panicked gaze flicking to Archer property.
Fuck. I’m not prepared for this shit. Not today. Not ever.
“I’m downtown,” she quickly adds, and I swear, it’s like she felt my mounting anxiety through the damn phone. “I’m at Thread and Thimble.”
Relief hits hard and fast, knocking the breath from my lungs. For a second, all I can do is sag against the seat, chest heaving like I just crossed a finish line.
“Got it,” I murmur. “See you soon.”
“Drive safe, son. Love you.”
The call ends, and my shoulders finally drop. I glance at the mutt curled up like he owns the place and smirk. “Buckle up, asshole. You’re going home.”
He tilts his head like he’s considering it.
