Page 19 of Found by the Pack
Boone and I both stare.
“Not like… I was not going to shoot my shot,” Shepard mutters. “She was soaked. Rainstorm. I gave her cocoa and a sweatshirt. She crashed in the library until the volunteer came in.”
Boone’s face softens. “She okay?”
“I think so, but there was something a little cynical and sad about her. I’m not sure. I may be overthinking it.”
Something in his voice makes me glance over, but he’s already rounding the car. He opens the back to toss in his bag, then closes it with a softthunk.
Sadie. I repeat the name in my head.
I don’t know why it’s sticking the way it is. I didn’t even see her properly. Just a flash of pink hair, the quick flare of panic in her posture before she took off.
She looked at me like I was a ghost. Or worse—like she’d seen one.
Boone slaps me on the back as we cross the street toward the bar. “You’re being quiet.”
I grunt. “Maybe I’m just wondering why Shep didn’t hit on the mysterious hot girl who wore his clothes.”
Boone snorts. “Please. This man hasn’t gone on a single date since Camilla passed.”
That earns a tight pause between us. Shepard doesn’t correct him. He never does.
We all knew Camilla. Sweet girl. Soft voice. Kind to everyone. She and Shepard were one of those quiet, old-soul couples that made sense. And then she got sick.
Real sick.
Shepard buried her three years ago. He hasn’t brought anyone around since.
“She’s got that haunted look,” Shep says after a moment. “You don’t push women like that. You let ’em come to you.”
I nod, mostly to myself. That look. Yeah, I saw it too.
“Are you interested in this woman?” Boone asks me.
I shake my head but Shepard beats me to the punch. “Please, this one never dates.”
We duck into the bar. The usual. Dim lighting, clack of pool balls, somebody’s alt-rock playlist playing just a hair too loud. Ellie’s behind the bar, tapping her nails against the register as she rings up a couple regulars.
She sees us and nods toward the back.
“Our table’s open,” Boone says. “I’ll rack.”
Shepard grabs us drinks while I hang back near the table, watching the game in progress on the next felt. I don’t know why I’m distracted. Shepard’s right. I don’t date. Never really saw the point.
Too many obligations. Too much danger.
Besides, what we do—the fires, the rescues—it doesn’t leave a lot of room for things like romance. Not after watching Boone lose his brother.
Shepard slides me a beer. Boone breaks.
We play three rounds. I win two, Shepard wins the third. Boone curses us both and downs his IPA like it’s water.
The subject of Sadie doesn’t come up again until we’re packing up to leave.
“So,” Boone says, grabbing the chalk from the edge of the table, “you ever figure out why you were staring after her like a kicked puppy?”
I give him a look. “I wasn’t. And you weren’t even there.”
