I cut the sentence short, not wanting to say something I'd regret. But I couldn't stop my train-of-thought. What if someone harmed Chloe's dog? Or Chloe?
At the old neighborhood, I'd seen things – things that would turn anyone's stomach. At the thought of anything like that happening to her or anyone important to her, a quiet rage settled over me. I looked away and concluded with a massive understatement. "I wouldn’t like it."
I wouldn't put up with it either.
Chloe's voice, light and sweet, interrupted my dark thoughts. "You don't even have a dog."
I turned to look at her. "Yeah. See what I mean?"
"No," she said with a laugh. "You're all worked up about some stranger mistreating your dog, and you don't even have one."
My dog wasn't real. Chloe was. And I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her. "I'm not worked up," I said.
"Really?" Her gaze shifted to my hand, the one holding Chucky's leash.
I looked down. My fist was clenched, and my knuckles were white. Deliberately, I loosened my grip. I reminded myself that Chloe was safe. She was here. And she was with me. Nothing was going to happen.
Next to me, she was smiling. Looking at her, I had to smile, too. I couldn’t help it. When I was with her, I was happy, simple as that.
Too soon, we'd circled back to her place. I wanted to see her again, not tomorrow, and not by chance. I turned toward her and asked, "Got any plans for tonight?"
She paused, like the question had caught her off guard. "Actually," she said with a note of regret, "I do have plans."
Plans? With who?
"In fact," she continued, "I'd better get going if I don't want to be late."
From the tone of her voice, I couldn't tell. Was this a work thing? Or something else?
"How about tomorrow night?" I asked.
She gave her house a quick, worried glance. After a long silence, she said, "Nights are bad for me."
Because of her job? From that worried look, I didn't think so. I looked toward the house. Was someone in there? Watching?
Working to keep my tone easy, I said, "So, if you don't mind my asking, who do you live with, anyway?"
She hesitated. "What do you mean?"
I tried again. "You're the only one I've seen hanging around." I flicked my head toward her house. "I'm guessing that's your parents' house? They out of town?"
Slowly, her gaze shifted to the house. She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets, as if searching for some complicated answer to my simple question.
I waited, wondering what I was missing. Did she think I'd rob the place? Or worse?
Again, I glanced at the house. She couldn’t live there alone. The house was too big and too pricey for someone her age, even if shehadgrown up with money. Yeah, my own house was five times the size, andIlived alone. But I was the exception, not the rule.
Finally, she pulled her hands from her pockets. She pointed toward my place and said, "Are you living inyourparents' house?"
The question couldn’t be serious, but what the hell, I answered it anyway. "No. Haven't for a while."
In front of me, her face froze. She glanced away. "Sorry."
I was the one who was sorry, because too late, it hit me that I'd been an ass to assume she was available. If she'd lived with her parents, she'd have told me.
Her silence told me all I needed to know.
Fuck.
