Normally I would’ve turned on the television in the living room, but I didn’t want to wake Arthur. Should’ve bought a television for your bedroom. Yeah, except I’d be tempted to watch it all night, and that was bad for sleep hygiene. My therapist had given me lectures on how to sleep properly. As if that could somehow keep the lingering nightmares at bay. The fear of?—
Nope. Not going there. Long in the past.
I surveyed my already-beloved home in my mind. Paid for by nightmare money, but my home nonetheless. I’d made a fresh start and wasn’t going to think about all the shit that had?—
“Are you going to close that refrigerator?”
I spun to find Arthur, leaning on his crutch.
The fridge door alarm was binging.
Sunk deep in my memories, I’d totally missed that. “Sorry.” I slammed the door shut.
Thereby dropping us into darkness. I had a habit of closing all the blinds to try to keep out the light pollution from the streetlamp by the house, but that resulted in pockets of deep shadows and near obliteration of illumination. I knew my way to the fridge—okay, late night snacks were not an uncommon thing—but I wasn’t used to someone else sharing the unlit space. I froze.
Arthur, clearly accustomed to this quirk of mine after eight days in my house, knew where the light switch was, and he hit it.
The kitchen filled with light.
I blinked, dazzled, and found myself staring right at him.
He held my gaze with those fathomless blue eyes that so resembled Xandra’s.
The cat had settled nicely here over the last week. She’d found a perch in my living room that allowed her to survey all who lived here—as well as the street beyond—without her having to interact with anyone she didn’t wish to. More and more, she was interacting with me. That felt good.
And now here I was with Arthur standing in my kitchen, his solid body clad only in gray sleep pants and a snug T-shirt, also interacting… “Cheese?” I held the slice aloft.
Ebony barked.
“Eb.” Arthur’s voice was clipped. “He knows better.” He eyed me. “Are you giving him treats behind my back?”
“Of course not.” Well, except that little bit of tuna juice—which he might’ve shared with Twain. I’d saved the actual pieces of tuna for Chili and Xandra. “Okay, maybe a bit of tuna juice. They’d just…they’d been so good with Maisie today.”
“That mastiff with attitude. I wondered how that went. Sorry, I should’ve asked.”
“You were tired when you got home from the shelter.”
“I ate your tuna melts—which were delicious. Nice touch with the sweet pickle.”
I preened at the compliment.
“And then I went to lie down, and I fell asleep. Like every day this week.”
“Dizziness still?” We hadn’t spoken much of his health, even though we encountered each other constantly and I drove him to work early each morning. He’d made it abundantly clear he wanted his space—so I’d given it to him. I’d noticed, when he wasn’t looking, how he still struggled with both his leg and his head. I just didn’t know how bad he was suffering.
“It’s better.”
Which wasn’t the same as gone.
He pointed to the kitchen table.
I gestured for him to sit. Should’ve offered that right away.
He eased himself onto the chair and tucked his crutch against the wall. “I’m hoping to move to a cane soon and then be okay completely. I can’t wait to be free of…” He ran his hand up and down his body.
That big, solid dad-bod I’d noticed on more than one occasion. But lusting after someone in such obvious distress was a hard no. He didn’t want me to see his pain—but I did.
Lamely, I held up the piece of cheese. “I don’t suppose you want?—”
