“Pet store next to the hardware store. It’s adoption day. I went in,” he explained, watching her closely. “I couldn’t leave without taking him with me.”

“What’s that?” she repeated.

Nick didn’t reply as he tried to read her.

“What is that?” she enunciated each word clearly as he continued to try to contain the pup at the same time figure out what was going on behind her blank green eyes. “The breed,” she finished.

“Mutt, but they say mostly Labrador.”

He watched her green eyes instantly round huge.

Then they squeezed tightly shut as she burst out laughing.

He stared stunned as she clapped her slimy hands, catching the pup’s attention, his ears flying out as he looked to Liv, and she stumbled—actually fucking stumbled—gracelessly to the sink.

She did a shit job washing her hands and they were still half-wet when she came back to him, still laughing, eyes on the puppy, hands up.

She tore the dog right from his grip, cooing, “Come to Momma, baby. That’s it,” she stretched her neck as the dog bathed it with her tongue, “give Momma kisses.”

Nick stood still as she wandered away, a princess with shining black hair in designer jeans and high heeled boots in a rustic, old house in the mountains of Tennessee being lavished by dog spit, still cooing and doing it nonsensically as she walked out of the kitchen into the living room

“At least he didn’t take us to a trendy country setting that’s really a suburb. We are firmly in a country setting that is not trendy,” she assured the dog absurdly. “But there are no horses to be raised in sight.”

Nick still didn’t move as she disappeared into the living room but he heard her go on.

“Ooo, you’re a boy. We need to name you.” Her voice rose. “Nicky! We need to name him. Come in here and do not touch the food. I’m cooking dinner and I’m not taking your shit.”

Nick continued to stand still until, slowly, he turned his head to look to the door to the garage. He then turned back to look into the kitchen.

“Whiz.” He heard her say. “You move like lightning. No, Punk.” He heard the dog whine. “You don’t like Punk? Okay, but you can’t be Spot, you’re not spotted.”

He looked back to the garage door.

“Nick!” she called.

He stared at the threshold at the bottom.

Fuck, he hadn’t noticed.

“Sweetheart.” He heard her again and knew she was back in the kitchen. “Our dog needs a name.”

He looked to her to see she was bent over, ass in the air looking fine in her jeans, putting their new puppy on the floor.

It jumped back in her arms.

Now, he noticed.

There he was.

He’d made it.