“Let him rest. Come with me.”

Jake drives me to Megan’s house. The truck feels so empty without Swarley in the backseat. Sydney blows up Jake’s phone with a million messages. I reply to every one of them, doing my best to reassure her that Swarley will be fine.

I have no idea if he will be fine. Everyone told me my mom would be fine. She wasn’t fine.

“Ave?”

I glance over at Jake holding my door open. When did we get here? My thoughts are sluggish. I just need things to slow down, except Sydney getting here. I need her right now, but I don’t want her to hurry since I found out she’s driving alone.

Jake unbuckles my seat belt and scoops me up in his arms.

“I can walk.”

“And I can carry you.”

Two of the sturdiest dogs I have ever seen rush to greet us.

“Hey, pups.” Jake hunches down and gives them some love.

“Pups? They don’t look like pups.”

He chuckles. “Odin and Jord are South African Boerboels.”

I squat next to Jake and let them lick my face. Jake raises a single brow.

“I’m not a diva.”

I’m sometimes a diva.

We give them a few seconds of attention before they run off again. I follow Jake to Megan’s kitchen. She has a cozy house with an open-floor plan. It’s painted in shades of white and gray with soft green and gold accents and dog toys are scattered on the tile floor.

“I’ll make us something to eat, and we can take dinner to Megan since she’ll be there all night.” He hands me his vibrating phone. “Your sister.”

Any change?

I type back.

No. Sorry :(

“I get to watch you cook in a kitchen, not just over a campfire. Exciting.”

He glances over his shoulder at me as he inspects the contents of Megan’s refrigerator. “I aim to please.”

“Yes, I know.” My skin heats from memories of all the ways Jake has pleased me.

He pulls out produce bags of various veggies, beans and cashews from the pantry, and a slew of spices.

“Where do you stay in L.A.?” I say this instead of “I’ve never had a guy cook for me.” Jake is the epitome of everything that’s missing in my life. In other words … a life.

“I have an apartment above my restaurant, similar to my apartment above the location in Milwaukee.”

“I’ve been to Sage Leaf in L.A. I asked someone who worked there what was above the cafe, and they said ‘nothing.’”

“As they should.”

“How long do you stay there?”

He shrugs with his back to me as he chops onions like a ninja. “Maybe five or six weeks out of the year.”