Page 86 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
I've spent my career helping animals feel safe.Reading signals.Creating environments where scared, defensive creatures can lower their guards.And then I spring Cape Cod on Eve without warning, like some amateur who's never seen a cornered animal before.Fucking brilliant, Harrison.
LoverBoy jumps onto the bed where the sheets are still rumpled, circling three times before settling into the spot that smells most like Eve.Smart dog.I grab my phone again.
Me
I should have told you earlier.I didn't want to spook you.And I know you hate the miscommunication trope.I do, too.And I know this wasn't miscommunication, it was non-communication.
Still no answer.I run a hand through my hair, rough enough that LoverBoy raises his head in concern.If this were a medical case, I'd be methodical.Examine all symptoms, make a diagnosis, develop a treatment plan.But this is Eve—brilliant, complicated, stubborn Eve, and I'm way past clinical detachment.
I open my laptop and type "Chuck Edison" before I can talk myself out of it.His carefully curated website appears—medical journals, speaking engagements, social media posts about excellence and leadership and other bullshit.There's a pattern in every photo: Chuck centered, commanding, with Eve slightly off to the side.That professional smile that never reached her eyes.The one I saw that first night before she let me see the real her.
I slam the laptop shut.The guy's a textbook narcissist with a medical license.And if she wants me to know more, she'll tell me.I don't need his curated version of an Eve he tried to dim down.
Grabbing my jacket, I whistle for LoverBoy."Come on.Need some air."
The cold hits us like a slap as we step outside.Snow crunches under my boots while LoverBoy prances delicately beside me, somehow managing to keep his paws mostly dry despite his size.Past Rosie's where Eve and I had coffee, past the tree we lit together, and past my parents' old house where we chatted for hours online when I came back from the university.
In every romance novel Eve loves, this would be the moment for a grand declaration, a dramatic sacrifice.I'd show up at her door with a crocheted pickle bouquet, pledging to drop everything and follow her anywhere.
But that's not what either of us needs.
With Faye, I let her go without a fight because part of me was relieved when she took that DC job.We looked good together, made sense to everyone around us, but I was playing a part the whole time.The reliable small-town vet.The good guy.The one who puts everyone else first.
This thing with Eve?It's not a role.It's not a performance.It's me, finally figuring out what I actually want instead of what everyone needs from me.And what I want?It's us finding a way to make it work because we're better together than alone.Because we want each other.Because we support each other's dreams.
LoverBoy stops to mark a particularly fascinating streetlamp, taking his sweet time in the cold."Seriously?You couldn't do this at the park?"
His look clearly says: "You're stalling.Send the text already."
"Fine.But if she doesn't answer, we're sharing the fancy dog treats I've been saving."
I pull my phone out again, fingers cold as I type another message, my heart pounding against my ribcage and yet calm washing over me, too.
LoverBoy headbutts my ankle, looking up expectantly.
"Yeah, I know," I mumble."But the ball's in her court now."
Chapter twenty-seven
EVE
Theconservatoryattheback of the B&B is technically closed for winter, but Sally insisted it would be "the perfect thinking spot."She had a heater and a mattress brought so I could actually sleep there.Wild how she can find a mattress that quickly after all.
And now?In the middle of the afternoon, glass walls streaked with condensation, wicker furniture with faded cushions, and the small space heater fighting valiantly against December's chill.Not exactly winter wonderland material, but it beats having a breakdown in the room I share with Adam.
Shared.Maybe still share?I don't even know.
Blanche lies across my feet like a living weighted blanket, her warmth more effective than the space heater.Dorothy, meanwhile, has created an impressive path through the dust on the tile, her endless pacing matching the circular thoughts in my head.The mug of hot chocolate Sally pressed into my hands is cold now, a thin skin forming on top.
"What would you actually say to him if he were here?"I mutter to myself, tapping my fingers in that triple-rhythm my therapist noticed years ago.When asked if it was a coping mechanism, I'd laughed and said it was my nervous system being "neurologically inefficient."Dr.Patel had given me that look.The one that says she's waiting for me to stop hiding behind medical terminology.
I pull out my crochet project.Another emotional support pickle, of course.This one's stitches are erratic, too tight in some places, too loose in others.A mess.A fucking pickle mess.Like me.
The Cape.
"He tried to protect me," I say to Blanche, who lifts her head slightly, ears perked."But also himself, maybe."
Outside, snow falls in fat, silent flakes.The world beyond the glass transforms into that perfect postcard that tourists dream about.The kind of Christmas scene I spent years actively avoiding because it reminded me too much of home.
