“She’s barely a year old, and not even eighty pounds yet.” He cuffs her ear affectionately, rubbing in circles with his thumb. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you, Cocoa?”
I give my still-damp face one last wipe with my forearm, and then twist on my backside so I’m facing the dog. “Shake, Cocoa.”
The dog lifts her paw, a goofy dog grin on her face. I take her paw and shake it as I would a man’s hand, and she barks.
“Tell hergood girl,” Logan instructs.
“Good girl, Cocoa,” I say, and the dog immediately launches herself at me, tongue first. This time, I try what Logan did, making my voice sharp and hard. “Sit, Cocoa.”
“See?” Logan says, grabbing the dog around the neck and hauling her against his chest, letting her lick his chin, laughing. “She’s a good girl.”
Clearly, the man loves his dog. Something about this makes my heart twist, and melt. I don’t know what to do with myself as I watch Logan rub, pet, and kiss his dog as if she were a beloved child. Other than try not to melt, that is.
Finally, Logan stands up, wipes his face. “Gotta go outside, Cocoa?”
Cocoa barks and, with a clicking scrabble of claws, tears across the house to a back door and plants her haunches on the gleaming hardwood, thick tail flailing wildly, her head swiveling between Logan and the door. Logan pulls the sliding glass door aside, and Cocoa lunges through the opening as soon as it’s wide enough to fit her bulk. The outdoor space—which I hadn’t realized existed in Manhattan—is small but elaborate and beautiful. A small terrace of cobblestone, a round wrought-iron table with four chairs, a gleaming silver grill, and plot of green grass maybe a dozen steps across, flowering bushes lining the back fence. Logan follows Cocoa out, and I follow him; we stand together, watching the dog prance around happily, circle three times, and then squat to do her business.
It’s quiet here. Even in the middle of the day, there is no babel of traffic sounds, no horns or grinding engines or sirens.
“This isn’t where I imagined you living,” I say, apropos of nothing.
“Expected some downtown high-rise, probably? Big views and lots of black marble?” He shoves a hand in his hip pocket, scraping at the cobblestone with his boot toe.
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“I had that, for a while. I hated it.” He shrugs. “Found this place, kind of by accident. Bought it, reno’d it myself, and adopted Cocoa. Having somewhere quiet to go, at the end of the day? It’s priceless. Having somewhere outside with some green and some privacy? Even more so. And Cocoa to keep me company... can’t get any better.” He glances at me. “Well, itcould, but that’ll happen in time. I hope.”
Is he talking about me? He’s looking at me as if he might be. But I don’t know what to make of that, what to say to it, how to process it. This is unfathomable, to me. A dog, a yard, peace and quiet. No view of the city, no endless parade of stories to invent, crossing thirteen stories beneath me. No expectations on my time. Choosing my own clothing. Discovering what I like...
It’s all too much. I’m choking on possibilities. I turn away, yank the glass door open, dart through, find the hallway and the open door showing me the bathroom. I don’t even bother closing the door behind me, I just collapse onto the lid of the toilet, face in my hands. My shoulders heave, and I feel tears sliding down.
I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t stop it.
I jump a mile into the air when I feel a cold nose touch my cheek. She doesn’t lick me or bark or jump on me, she just lays her chin on my knee. I laugh though my tears at her expression, wide dark eyes gazing at me, as if she could somehow commiserate, as if she’s trying to communicate to me. Comforting me with her presence.
And it works.
I bury my fingers in her soft, silky, short, chocolate-brown fur, scratch her floppy ears, pet her thick neck.
“See what I mean?” Logan’s voice, from the doorway. “There’s a reason we call dogs ‘man’s best friend.’ This is why.”
I sniffle and feel a fresh wave of tears flow over me, hide my face against Cocoa’s shoulder and cry on her; her only reaction is to put her chin on my shoulder and very gently lick the lobe of my ear.
Eventually, it passes. I look up, and Logan is sitting on the floor beside me, legs stretched out, back against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, wiping my face. “I don’t know why—”
“Stop,” he interrupts. “You don’t have to apologize. I know—I get the feeling you’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to tell me anything, I just... I’m here to help, okay?”
I struggle for calm, my emotions still running on high, turbulent and mixed up. “Why, Logan? You don’t know anything about me. Why do you want to help me?” I wipe at my eyes again. “You just made yourself an enemy of Caleb. And for what?”
He moves to kneel in front of me, nudges the bill of his hat up out of my face. “Don’t you worry about him. Okay? Caleb is not your problem anymore. He’s mine.” His fingers brush over my cheekbones. “As for why I’m doing this? I wish I could say it was pure altruism, rescuing the damsel in distress because I’m just that kind of knight in shining armor. I can’t say that, though.”
I have to focus on blinking, on breathing, on not letting myself dive forward and inhale his scent and feel his muscles under my hands and taste his tongue and lips and neck. Instead, I just stare at him, and hold myself utterly still. “Why not?”
“Because the truth is, I have far more selfish motivation. I mean, yeah, you didn’t belong there, and I just... Ihadto get you out. But... getting you away from Caleb’s cameras and security gorillas... getting you alone...”
“You wanted me alone?” Why isthatthe only thing I’m seizing on?
