Page 39 of Enemies to Lovers

I frown. “No…”

His mouth splits into a teasing grin. “I’m kidding. I’ve got an idea.”

We pass through his room, and I keep my eyes on the floor. I won’t look around, won’t overthink how he’s arranged things, if he cleaned before I came over, what side his nightstand is on… I don’t care. I don’t.

I smell peanut butter, though, and that’s a question I keep behind my lips, even though it’s killing me to know.

I allow my eyes to drift upward when they move from carpet to tile. The counter is nice and long, only one sink, which seems weird since there’s obvious room for a double. A jetted tub and shower stand behind us, and the mirror stretches the length of the wall. Seeing myself with him in our reflection is a much-needed reminder of how we don’t belong together.

“Okay, boy,” Miles says, dipping and grabbing Brewster around the torso. My pup wriggles in his arms, but he manages to get him up on the counter. “Good boy, you’re okay…” Then he offers him a kong with peanut butter, and Brewster is suddenly the king of the bathroom.

“Well, that answers the smell question,” I say to myself, but Miles laughs as he runs a hand over Brewster’s back.

“You said he’s pooping in the house?” he asks.

I inch forward; Brewster is too occupied to worry about me. Thank goodness. “Six times since last night.”

“Consistency?”

“Started solid, then went runny. That one found the carpet.”

“Of course.” He smiles as he moves his hands around the dog, and I’m grateful for his careful way with my pup. However he feels about me, and me him, we at least don’t take it out on the animals.

I maneuver around Brewster, and cautiously, watching him… I lift his tail. “He’s a bit red back here. Could be how often he’s been going. Doesn’t look infected, at least on the surface…”

He leans over my shoulder, and the scent of peanut butter in the room suddenly mixes with Miles’ scent of ink and paper. I slide over… so he can see more clearly, and I can rid my head of dangerous thoughts.

Poop is not romantic, damn it.

“I don’t see an infection, either, but—”

“A test would rule it out for sure.”

“Exactly.” He straightens, setting a hand on his beard, his brows pulling together. “How long is he alone at your place?”

I lift a shoulder. “Logan works till five or six, regular work week. And if I’m not at school, I’m at home.”

“What does he do when you’re there? Is he around you much?”

I pat Brewster’s butt, and I love that he’s letting me. The sound of him licking the kong fills the space between our questions and answers. “He zooms up and down the stairs, chews on his lobster…” I playfully pinch his fur. “Refuses to cuddle.”

“Where does he sleep?”

My hand stops stroking, and I drum my fingers against Brewster. “My closet.”

Miles lifts a brow. “Your closet?”

“Yeah.” I meet his eyes. “I have a built-in shelf there he sleeps under.”

A solemn look passes his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth. I’m sure the same thought hits me at the same time.

“Post traumatic stress?” I say, and Miles takes in a deep breath.

“Maybe.” He gives Brewster a good scratch behind his ears, the muscles in his hands flexing. “Shelter animals will sometimes curl up in the smallest of spaces until they feel comfortable.”

“It’s been a few months. What should I do to make him more comfortable?” The question is more for myself than Miles, and he probably gets that, since he doesn’t answer. I’ve offered lots of cuddles, but he seems to only want to sit with Logan, if he’s sitting at all. He only sleeps in my closet because Logan shuts him out. Maybe there’s a scent that’s comforting. Or another animal? “Did he have a roommate at the shelter?”

“You’re not thinking of getting another dog, are you?”

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