Page 48 of Pick Me
I was not a man who’d ever wanted those sorts of things. I felt like Sally Ann, chasing her tail in a circle.
Ihad become my own biggest problem.
Then again, this was not a huge surprise. There was nothing like waking up at 3:00 a.m. from a vague dream about a tsunami hitting Vermont—still a landlocked state, last time I checked—and not having enough hands to save everyone to really get a man’s blood pumping in the morning.
I’d sat on my bed in the dark for long, long moments while my heart pounded out a crazy rhythm, telling myself thatall was wellwhile counting my breaths—in, hold, out, in, hold, out—feeling the panic threaten to swamp me.
But when I’d finally been able to draw a deep breath, I’d heard Goodman’s teasing voice in my head reminding me that it was inefficient to keep trying to white-knuckle my way through my mental health struggles… and that was when I’d finally emailed Dr. Travers about what was going on with me and asked if I could make our telehealth visits more regular.
I was doing better than I had been last spring. Iwas. So much better that it was tempting to believe I didn’t have a problem anymore. But it was just possible that I’d be better for real if I took my mental health more seriously and actuallyengaged rather than doing the bare minimum.
I turned toward the counter and the coffeepot. “I see you need to be jump-started this morning. Coffee?”
“Please.” He took a too-big gulp from the mug I handed him and sighed appreciatively. “Mmm. Thanks. Just the right cream-to-sugar ratio.”
I rolled my eyes and moved around him to snag my own mug from the counter so I could keep my hands busy. “It’s not that hard to achieve when your preferred ratio is ninety percent cream and sugar to ten percent coffee.”
“Lies,” he squawked before taking another deep gulp. “I’m very badass, and I drink only the highest-octane fuel.Grr.”
“If I melted coffee ice cream in a cup, you wouldn’t know the difference.”
He grinned, marginally more awake. “Okay, you’re not entirely wrong. But then, what is life without cream and sugar, Knox?” he mused philosophically.
I took a sip of my black coffee. “Healthier? Simpler? More efficient?”
“Tragic.” He pushed his hair back out of his face, and I saw his golden-brown eyes glinting with humor.
I grabbed a towel so I could wipe nonexistent crumbs off the counter, mostly for an excuse to turn away from him. “Late night?”
“Eh.” He seesawed his hand. “Pretty late. Had a breakthrough and almost finished a side project I’ve been working on, though, so it was worth it.”
“Side project?” I abandoned my towel. “Which one?”
“Mm.” He swallowed more coffee. “I’ll show you guys next week. Speaking of which, any luck getting Webb to take your money?”
“Not yet. Stubborn ass. And short of pretending our distant cousin Rockefeller died and left Webb a lawyer on retainer,I’m out of ideas for now. But I’m gonna keep trying. Has Aiden heard from Amanda again?”
Gage shook his head. “Not that I know of. I reminded him he’s got to ask permission from his dad before he goes with her or she could end up in trouble, but who knows if he’s listening. I mean, that’s his mom.” He blew out a breath. “Anyway. Aiden and I ran late last night because we’re trying to finish his project so he can bring the prototype to school next week—”
“Prototype.” I snorted. “You guys gonna mass-market these? To all the dog owners who don’t want to feed their dogs treats by hand?”
“Hey! You never know.” Gage took a loaf of bread from the freezer and put two slices in the toaster before leaning a hip against the countertop. “The guy who first sold pre-sliced bread to the masses was laughed at, too. ‘Who’d ever want to buy their breadsliced, Otto? What a stupid idea, Otto.’Hisgenius wasn’t recognized either.”
I snorted. Only Goodman would know the name of the man who invented sliced bread. Only Goodman could be cute about it.
“I mean, I know it’s not life-changing shit,” he went on, “but itiskinda cool. It dispenses a treat when the dog uses a pressure pad or button. Showing Aiden how to use it to train Sally Ann—or any other dog—is the fun part. I don’t need the money, just the inspiration.” He extracted a jar of Marco’s apple butter from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer.
“Oh, really?” I teased. “We’re independently wealthy now, are we, Goodman?”
“Kinda.” He shrugged casually as he spooned the sweet mixture onto his bread. “Not like I could buy my own rocket and pretend to be an astronaut, you know? But I can get by.”
He stuck the spoon in his mouth and licked it clean so thoroughly and distractingly it took me a second to realize what he said.
“Wait. I thought you said you didn’t have a lot growing up.”
“True. But our circumstances changed a year or so ago.”
I blinked, then blinked some more. “Like you won the lottery or something?”
