2. Dean

2

DEAN

D ean already knew that he was going to be in the doghouse before he got home and saw The Casserole Dish in the kitchen drainer.

The dirty baking pan was a permanent fixture of their kitchen counter. Both Deirdre and Dean cleaned fastidiously around it, but it was a lingering testament to their standoff. It had been baked dry, so it never smelled or molded, but it had been there for over a month, since the argument over dishes that had escalated into a blistering argument.

The make-up sex had been epic, but the dirty dish remained. The two had worked gradually into an unspoken chore schedule that basically kept the house from descending into toddler-fueled chaos, but neither was willing to accept responsibility for The Dish.

The fact that The Dish was now clean was deeply unsettling, and Dean wasn't sure what it meant, but he knew it was significant. He had actually wondered if he was going to end up doing it himself out of penance this time.

"Sorry I'm late," he called out from the back door, pitching his voice carefully so he didn't wake Aaron. "The fire department got called out for a dog that got hit by a truck on the two-oh." Was washing The Dish a sign that Deirdre already knew the whole story? Was it a sign that her anger had hit some new level with what she frequently called his reckless charity?

He expected her to be furious about what a soft touch Dean was and yell at him about their finances and responsibility, but he wasn't sure why that would mean she would finally fold over the dish that had been the elephant in the room for so long.

The object of his guilt thumped his tail on the floor when Dean set him carefully down, then surged to his feet and walked directly into a cabinet door, crumpling the surgery cone around his neck. He whined and swiveled his cone-shrouded head to try to find Dean, who knelt and stroked his back, causing the tail to wag harder.

"What is that ?"

"It's a dog," Dean explained without looking at Deirdre in the kitchen door. "He didn't have a collar or a chip, and the vet wouldn't treat him if someone didn't take responsibility. We've been talking about getting a pet. I know, he doesn't look like much, but he's a sweet guy, and I couldn't just leave him by the side of the road."

Doesn't look like much was a drastic understatement.

The vet had been clear that grooming was not part of his services, and the dog was a mass of mats and tangles in his short, curly fur. He was mottled dirty brown, but the places that had been sterilized and shaved suggested that he might be partly white underneath the grime. He was painfully skinny and probably had fleas. Dean tried not to think about trying to get them out of the carpet.

One leg was in a hot pink cast, and the cone of shame around his neck was already bent in several places. He smelled like he'd been rolling in cow patties and curdled milk. In addition to the casted leg, he had stitches on his sides and face, the shaved patches doing nothing for his general appearance.

"He's just coming out of the anesthesia," Dean explained. "We aren't supposed to let the leg get wet, but we can wrap a trash bag around it and give him a bath tomorrow. I mean, I will . You don't have to. I know I should have called and told you— asked you!—but I thought you should see him in person. Who can resist that cute face?" He was beginning to second guess his logic. The dog looked even worse after surgery, and he was walking in drunk circles around the kitchen, whining and wagging his tail low. His casted leg was a thunking counterpart to the click of his other feet.

Deirdre was silent and Dean risked looking around at her.

He instantly went uneasy and the bear within him stirred in wordless alarm.

She looked…wild around the eyes. She didn't look angry or put out, and she wasn't looking at the dog at all.

She was staring at Dean.

Was this the deal-breaker of their whole relationship? Dean wondered in sudden panic. Had impulsively adopting a stray dog broken her trust in some terrible way that he didn't realize? "He seems really gentle," he was quick to assure her. "He isn't bothered by my bear. And he wouldn't hurt Aaron." It was impossible to think of the dog being vicious, especially when he sat down and tried to scratch himself, falling over in the process. The tail thumped on the floor sheepishly as the dog tried to sort out his limbs again and seemed to decide it was easier being sideways. He licked the inside of his cone.

But Deirdre was still not looking at the dog .

"I promise, you won't have to do anything," Dean said desperately. "I'll walk him and clean up after him, and I don't know if he's housebroken, but I'll do that, too, if I have to. It will be good for Aaron to grow up with an animal that isn't a parent."

Deirdre just gazed at Dean like she had forgotten how words worked.

"You look like a deer in the headlights," Dean pointed out, trying to make a joke of her shifter form. He started to reach for her, to see if he could hug her back to being Deirdre. But his hands were still dirty from work and foul with the stink of the stray dog. He went to wash them. "What's wrong?"

"Dean…"

The crack in her voice made Dean stop soaping his hands and turn to her. "What is it? Is it the dog? I didn't think you'd be that mad. I can probably find someone to take him if it means so much to you. But we'd talked about getting a cat or a dog a few times. Deirdre, what is it?"

His desperate urge to comfort sent him to gather her up in his arms, careless of the water running in the sink, but she skittered back from his attempted embrace. Was it the grime that was still on his hands? Deirdre had grown up in the same small farm town that he had, and she wasn't usually that squeamish. "I don't understand."

"Dean…" Deirdre clamped her mouth closed again, and her blue eyes were full of agony. "I didn't mean to—I didn't know."

"Did something happen to Aaron?" Dean vaulted the dog and rushed to the kitchen door. "Is he hurt?" If his son had been injured while he was off being worried about some stray dog…

"No, no! Aaron is fine. He's fine ."

Dean waited for relief to follow Deirdre's assurance and it didn't, because it was still painfully clear that something was very, very wrong. "What, then?" he growled, because he was afraid and that always brought out the bear in him. "What?!"

"I met my mate."