Starfire(44)

“You’re in shock. You need something to bring your blood sugar up.”

Golden had stopped stroking his hair, and simply agreed with me, urging him to eat the chocolate.

The veterinarian came through, with her coat on and purse on her shoulder. She told Adrian they could deal with the paperwork tomorrow. She answered a few more questions, then apologized for rushing off, saying she had kids with homework waiting at home.

Golden took us back to see Cujo, who was stretched out on his side and looking comfortable, despite the plastic cone tapering out from his collar. Thankfully the wound was covered by bandages.

We gave him some pats through the bars of the cage—more for our benefit than his, since he was crashed out on drugs—and we left him there.

Golden gave us both a hug goodbye, and we went back out to the car. I felt lighter, like my whole body was filled with helium.

“It’s weird to leave him here,” Adrian said as he started the car. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

“I’ll pay for the vet bill.”

He patted my leg, showing traces of his first smile since the accident. “Firstly, I wouldn’t let you. Secondly, he has a fund set up for him that covers his care.” He turned the car in the direction of my house.

We drove for a while without talking, the radio on at a low volume. The announcer came on and said something stupid about Hollywood stars taking over the town.

I wanted to say something to Adrian, but I couldn’t think of what.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“Peaches, I know things are really complicated right now, but no matter what happens, I’ve been blessed to get to know you better.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“No. Do you want me to?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek for a moment. “I’m seeing Dalton this weekend, and I’m afraid you’ll hate me next week. More than you already do.”

“I will never hate you, and that’s a promise. You’re one of the most maddening and fascinating people I’ve ever known, and you have a good heart, as big as the sky. You have so much to give.” He tapped the steering wheel, the smile on his face growing. “And you’re a good kisser.”

“I could say all those exact same things about you.”

“Good.”

We drove the rest of the way to my house in silence.

He got out and walked me to my door. “I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he said, looking down at the tattered, blood-spattered edge of my top.

I slapped the side of my stomach. “As nice as this one? Seriously, this is a great cut for showing off my hot model body.”

“Do you want me to come in and tuck your hot model body into bed?”

He looked sleepy, like he would fall onto my bed and not leave until morning.

“I’ll be fine.” I gave him two kisses, a quick one followed by a longer one. “Call me first thing tomorrow and let me know how Cujo is doing.”

He gave me another kiss, lingering and soft.

“Will do, hot model girl.”

I opened the door and waved goodbye from the doorway.





CHAPTER 15


Friday morning, I was back at Peachtree Books, in my regular routine, but feeling odd and unsettled, waiting for the next thing to run in the door and knock me off my feet.

Adrian called to let me know that Cujo had a good, long sleep, and was hungry and wagging his tail in the morning. The dog would be taking a load of antibiotics and going back to the vet for checkups, but he was heading home that afternoon.

I should have been relieved after the good news, but my body felt like a wound-up spring, tensely anticipating change.

The store would be moving next week, and there was no denying the massive upheaval that was coming. The books themselves were pouting, refusing to cooperate. Normally during the course of a day, I’d have one or two front-faced books topple off a shelf with the breeze of the door opening. That Friday, before I even took my lunch break, I’d had a total of four books swan-dive to the floor.

I got all the books back in place and ordered them to behave before I locked the door with the Back in Five Minutes sign in place.

Kirstin wasn’t working at Java Jones that day, so I was served by a nice-looking man, around thirty, with a long, red beard and square glasses.

“Peaches Monroe!” he said as I approached the counter.

“You’re the stand-up bass player,” I said hesitantly.

“Correct! You win a prize.” He drew a card from the front pocket of his black apron and handed it to me. “That’s a free download of the hottest new single from the Bushy Beaver Tails, Beaverdale’s almost-famous band.”

I turned the card over to read the song title: Shake Your Peaches.