Cole interrupted my perusal by issuing another round of hugs—which I politely declined—and then Delly walked him out.
When the door shut, Adair gave up the facade and slumped back onto the couch with a sad little exhale.
I took a step toward him, but then stopped myself. Clenching my fists in frustration, I turned on my heel, went into our bathroom, and grabbed the thermometer with a clean washcloth. My tired brain deemed that enough to keep the germs away, which was dumb, but if he had a fever, we needed to know.
When I returned, he’d sunk even lower into the couch, but the deep frown on his face turned into a surprised smile when I flung the thermometer at him.
He popped it into his mouth without protest.
That blue raspberry Dum Dum came to mind as I watched his lips, waiting for the beep.
His eyes flicked to mine across the room when it beeped, and he took it out to check out the number. “All good, Doctor Sewell.”
“Good.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. “Then what’s wrong?”
He dropped his head back against the couch cushion. “I’m just grumpy, Indigo. And bored.”
My skin prickled in a good way at the casual nickname. “How long before you can put weight on your foot?”
“I’m hoping to get the cast off next week. The repair was pretty minor. I only have a cast because I didn’t immobilize my foot last time.” He rolled his head back toward me, smiling slowly. “I think my doctor in Georgia tattled on me.”
My lips twitched. “Cole said your follow-up appointment yesterday went well.”
He dipped his chin. “It did.”
We looked at each other for a long time, taking each other’s measure.
“I missed you,” he said softly.
I leaned my head against the molding, taking in his heavy eyes and the stubble on his jaw that was more like a beard now. “I missed you too.”
“You look ready for a nap.”
I shrugged. “I could say the same about you.”
“Everyone seemed okay this morning?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Pops hasn’t caught it. He even went to the salon this morning for a haircut and mustache trim. Actually—” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. “I meant to send you a picture. Here it comes.”
He lifted his head off the cushion, looking at me seriously. “I love that you call him Pops now.”
I tried to smile, but I was frozen by the sudden intensity in his gaze.
Mr. Smith becoming “Wilbur” was one thing.
Him becoming “Pops” to me was another.
There were few places I’d been more anxious than the nights I spent on the couch of Dad’s apartment when I first got him into Zinnia House in January. And even though it wasn’t the same couch as in Dad’s previous apartment, it’d felt the same.
In short, bad.
So, yeah, sleeping on that couch after weeks of having a real bed hadn’t done great things for my mental health, and getting close to more people had a baseline of dread simmering under my skin.
This man included.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table by his pillows, and he reached forward to open the photo I sent, smiling immediately when he saw it.
It was the first genuine, pointy-canine-revealing smile I’d seen since getting home.
