Chasing Serenity (River Rain 1)

I suspected we were both thus for entirely different reasons.

I headed around back where my garage was, pulled in, parked, grabbed the pizza I’d personally picked up from Federal (I didn’t ask, indeed, we hadn’t texted since Monday night, but I went with prosciutto and date), along with the paper bag containing the wedge salads, my purse, attaché, and I walked into my house.

I put the food on the island and dropped my purse and case before I headed to the door.

Incidentally, not going directly to Judge leached massive reserves from my iron will.

I used more arranging my face in a part bored, mostly displeased expression before I finally opened the door.

“Hello, Judge,” I greeted.

“Chloe,” he replied. “Just to say, I know your head’s twisted up with something, but my time on this earth is as limited, therefore just as precious as yours. You fucking twenty minutes of it away that I’ll never get back is not okay. Even with this shit we got going on between us, due to the fact your head is twisted up, I’ll remind you, not that I don’t know what I want, that is still not okay.”

In my frame of mind, although this was fair, and I deserved it, it was not a great place for him to start.

“I’ll remind you that I didn’t want to have this meeting,” I retorted.

“And I’ll remind you you don’t got a choice.”

Before I could say anything further, he clicked his tongue, his dog jumped up, body wagging with excited friendliness, and they both came into my house.

The dog was on a lead.

I did not want to like that Judge wasn’t one of those people who just assumed, due to his love for his dog, that everyone should love it, but more, abide it willy-nilly in their space.

I did not trust people who didn’t like animals.

That said, I did not like people who had some mistaken sense of entitlement that everyone should put up with their pets wherever they, as an animal owner, bringing along said animal, decided to be.

If it was genuinely a companion pet, that was one thing.

If it was your hyperactive springer spaniel that jumped on my leg while I was buying a sweater at Neiman’s, that was another.

Judge having his dog on a lead gave indication he got this vital nuance of socially responsible pet ownership.

And as I said, I didn’t want to like it.

(But I did.)

I wandered in with them and asked, “Did your dog find his perfect spot?”

“He’s good,” Judge muttered. And then he exacerbated my earlier concern about this new knowledge regarding Judge that I liked by asking, “You okay with him off the leash? He can hang out back, he’s not destructive. Or I can keep him tethered to me. He’ll be cool.”

I did not want to be dying to greet his dog.

(But I was.)

“You can let him off,” I replied.

“He’ll come to you if I do,” Judge warned.

Oh, I knew that already. The dog had his eyes trained to me and was in full body wag.

I refused to show my desperate desire to get my fingers into that soft fur.

Because it was a cute dog.

But also because it was Judge’s dog.

“That’s fine,” I replied casually.

Judge bent and let the pooch free.

He came to me.

My love of animals and lifelong conditioning had me squatting to make myself less threatening, but also welcoming.

After a couple of get-to-know-you sniffs, I got a snuffle in the ear and a lick on the neck.

I fought my smile but didn’t fight giving him a thorough head rub.

“Zeke,” Judge said in a soft voice I immediately tucked away somewhere sealed tight, never to be remembered again.

The dog looked over his shoulder at his daddy.

“No, boy, enjoy. I’m telling Chloe your name,” he said to his dog.

I’d noticed he was precious about this, and as such, hadn’t offered it up until then.

It felt like a gift.

I refused to consider it a gift.

“Do you want water?” I asked the pup, rather than his dad.

“That’d be good. I have a travel bowl,” Judge said, and I noticed for the first time he had a backpack hanging over one shoulder.

I got out of my crouch and we sorted that. Judge put the extra beers in the fridge. I got out plates, cutlery, and napkins. Judge opened two bottles. I unearthed the salads. All this was done in silence, like a comfortable, practiced dance.

It was torture.

Judge flipped the top of the pizza box over.

He then inquired, “What the hell is this?”

I wanted to laugh.

I did not laugh.

“Prosciutto, date, arugula, ricotta, pecorino and balsamic vinaigrette,” I rolled off like I was a bored server.

Judge tried to lighten the atmosphere, delivering through a crooked (but still dimple-producing) grin. “Couldn’t get pepperoni and sausage?”

“Do you not like what I got?” I asked coldly.

His grin died.