Chapter 21

I sigh and bring Zeus against my chest, watching through the kitchen window as Rory's car zips down the driveway, its taillights disappearing into the midnight darkness.

"You messed up, bud," I mutter.

He whines and looks up at me with those big puppy eyes.

"Or maybe I did by encouraging you to be a floofy vacuum," I tell him, scratching him behind the ears and setting him on his feet. I follow him down, getting on my hands and knees and searching for errant pieces of Rory's bracelet.

Unfortunately, there aren't any to be found.

Which means that I might be conducting a different search for charms in the morning, and I'm not looking forward to it.

Which means that my dog has just destroyed Rory's last possession from her dad.

"Fuck," I mutter.

"Woof," Zeus barks softly, coming over and leaning on my leg and foot, a warm weight that's become familiar.

He did that the first time I went over to Chrissy's house and saw the menagerie of rescue animals she was keeping—in this case, a litter of corgi pups.

Adorable and troublesome pups.

But Zeus was more chill than his siblings—in charge in a confident, relaxed way that told me he'd be a good fit for my life.

The rest is history.

He loves me, but he's also cool sleeping in the other room on his cozy pillow.

Not that he's not aware of where I am at all times. He's just…cool.

Calm for a corgi—minus the consumption of Rory's priceless artifacts.

"You're cool, aren't you, bud?" I ask, nudging him off my foot, if only to scratch him properly.

The garage door goes, the noise rumbling through the house and sending Zeus's ears perking. Mine would do the same if I could, and I push up to my feet, move to the window over the sink, hoping to see Rory's car in the driveway, to watch her pulling back in.

Changing her mind.

Wiping the look of her panic and fear from my mind.

"Woof?" Zeus barks again.

But it's not Rory.

It's my mom zipping into the driveway, parking and getting out, walking toward the front door. I inhale, shake off the moroseness clinging to my limbs and force myself to plaster on a natural smile by the time she's walking into the kitchen.

"Hi, baby," she says, moving over to me and rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to my cheek. "How was your day?"

Shit. Shittier. And I dropped a shit-ton of cash on a diamond ring that was significantly bigger than something I should have bought, especially for a fake relationship. Then…perfect. For a moment, my day had been perfect.

Holding Rory in my arms.

Soft and warm and smelling of apple pie and flowers.

Our bodies melding together, swaying to the music.

Beautiful. Perfect.

And then…shit again.

But I don't tell my mom any of that. Fuck no, I don't.

I just kiss the top of her head and squeeze her lightly. "Great," I say, nodding to the pie on the counter. "Especially because I have pie."

She steps back and glances over at the pastry delight, mouth curving. "Of course," she says.

"Of course what?"

Her eyes meet mine. "Of course Rory pulled it out at the perfect time."

I frown.

She grins. "That golden-brown crust." One shoulder lifts and drops in a shrug. "I couldn't have done it better myself."

My brows drag together further.

Thankfully, she takes pity on me and explains.

"Cathy"—a friend she'd made on one of her earlier visits to town—"wanted to meet early. Your pie was in the oven, but Rory offered to watch it." A nod to said pie. "And of course, she pulled it out at the perfect time. I couldn't have done it any better—and I don't just mean the baking or the prep work she helped me with before that. I mean"—she takes my hand, squeezes—"all of it. Rory is a lovely person and…you did good, King. I'm proud of you."

Guilt slices through me so quickly that it takes everything in me to not flinch back.

Proud of me.

For faking a relationship.

For pining after a woman I shouldn't want.

Shouldn't because Rory's just out of a relationship, and because…Rory deserves a man who isn't gone half the year, isn't potentially dragging her from city to city when her life, her work, her friends, her animals are here.

Because she deserves that fairy tale.

Because I know I'm not the man to give her that.

Not. Your. Father.

I grind my back teeth together, exhale silently through my nose. "Thanks, Mom," I say softly, scooping up Zeus and starting to back into the hall. "Not to rush off"—lie—"but I've got to pack for the flight in the morning." I hitch my head toward the stairs. "I'll tell you goodbye tomorrow before I go."

She's quiet for a moment, those eyes on me, studying me, Mom Radar apparently pinged, even though my voice is natural.

Even though I have lots of experience lying like this.

Lying through my heart pounding in my chest and my fingertips tingling and my throat so tight it seems like a miracle that I'm able to get any words out at all.

But even if that Mom Radar is triggered, she doesn't call me on the lie.

She just moves close and touches my cheek, her eyes sad. "My sweet boy with the big, vulnerable heart." She drops her hand, sadness drifting away when Zeus squirms in my arms, wriggling his long, hot dog shaped body in order to kiss her on the chin. She laughs, stealing my pooch and cuddling him close. "Zeus and I will make you some treats to share on the plane before I head home to see your dad."

"You're leaving already?"

She kisses Zeus on the top of his head, gaze drifting up to mine. "You're good, baby," she says. "And you and Rory need your space."

"I—"

"I'll be back for Thanksgiving." A smile. "And I'll be here long enough that you'll have time to get sick of me."

"Never."

"My sweet boy," she murmurs again. Then shakes her head. "Go pack, baby. I'll get to baking."

I kiss her cheek, pat my pooch on his fluffy butt. "Thanks, Mom."

"Anytime, baby."

And then I go into the hall, take the stairs.

I do pack a suitcase.

Which centers me enough so that I can go back down and help my mom with the brownies, stealing more than my fair share, even as I consume half the pie.

My stomach full of carbs and refined sugar—so much so that I feel sick—I soak in this time with her, catching up on all the gossip about my siblings, chatting with my dad, who calls her telling her that he and the team he coaches are en route to home from the road trip he was on, listening to her lunch date with her friend Cathy (and surmising that their friendship seems to be cooling, likely because the blind date she'd set up with Cathy's daughter, Stacy, had been a disaster).

Something else to feel guilty for.

But before that takes hold of me, she's distracting me with a story about the twins and some Silly String and Jakob coming home to a mess that…

Suffice to say, reached epic proportions.

We laughed, we reminisced, we ate, and while I love these moments and I love my mom, I can't lie.

My focus is on the front door.

On the empty driveway.

On the fact that my bed stays empty when I go to sleep that night.

And remains that way when my alarm goes off early the next morning.