Hate You Not

Burke is quiet but friendly as we get the biscuits then drive to visit Hot Rocket at the vet—he’s now recovering at our usual vet in Dawson—and then take the kids to the playground behind the local library. There’s a porch swing by the playground, its chains bolted to the underside of a small party pavilion.

I sit down on it, and then Burke does. The swing creaks under his weight, and he makes an alarmed face. He rolls his shoulders like they’re sore, and laughs at something Oliver calls out to him.

Then he pulls his phone out, looking down at it. He mumbles something about “the office.”

“What’s going on with your work?” I ask.

“Mm, just everyday things.”

I study his face a second. “You look tired.”

“A little,” he says, giving me a crooked little smile.

We get up and cheer the kids on as they race across the monkey bars. Then the pool people call. The assembly—which apparently was some sort of super-fast, patented process—is finished, and they’ve started filling it up.

When we get back home, the kids check it out, and then race inside to put their swim suits on—even though their party doesn’t start for three more hours.

Burke takes a work call out on the porch and then sits on the couch, his hand cupping his phone as he frowns down at it. I go into the kitchen to dig out some food that I can offer him, but when I poke my head back into the living room, I find him asleep, his head tipped back against the couch’s spine.

His throat is thick and kissable. I can see the subtle swell of his Adam’s apple. And that jawline. Most of the time when I look over at the couch, I see a tiny kid there. Seeing his big body makes my belly tighten.

Take a chill pill, June.

There’s a throw blanket in a basket by the couch. I pull it out, shake it to be sure there are no bugs inside—this is southwest Georgia, after all—and drape it over his shoulders and chest, covering him down to his knees. He doesn’t move. My eyes roam over him a few times, admiring how good-looking he is—even though I know I shouldn’t.

I wonder what the deal is with his job. Why does he keep doing these startups? I get it, it’s a “lifestyle,” if the articles can be believed, but he’s done three in a row. Last time I saw him, I didn’t know him, but this time, I think he seems exhausted.

I tell myself that’s not my problem. Well, maybe a little bit my problem. He’s the kids’ uncle, and they don’t have a lot of people left, so he matters to them.

The kids do quiet time in their room for about an hour and a half. Then we sneak outside with all the dogs. Oliver and Margot steal into the animal pen to play with all our new pets—pardon me, investments—and I supervise the four-dog playdate.

I’m throwing a Frisbee for Tink when Burke saunters down the back steps, rubbing his face and looking sleepy as he walks over to me. He pulls his sunglasses on and murmurs, “Hi.”

“Hey there, Sleepy.”

He gives a shake of his head. “Sorry about that.” He yawns, and I can’t help smiling. I try to make it look more like a smirk.

“Yeah. I kind of suck at sleep.” He runs a hand back through his hair, and then his eyes sweep over the pens. “Wow. You’ve got a lot of new…pets.” His gaze fixes on Oliver and Margot, who are holding George and Peppa. “You’re not gonna eat the little pink dudes, are you?”

I grin, wiggling my eyebrows. “What do you think?”

He looks aghast. I up the stakes by giving him an evil grin. “We do live on a farm, Burke.”

“You’d really do that?” His mouth twists into a troubled frown. “Maybe could I buy them?”

I throw my head back, laughing my damn ass off. “Ohhh, Burkie Bug. Do you have a weakness for the ‘little pink dudes?’?”

“Pigs are smart,” he says defensively.

“You ever had a conversation with one?”

He frowns. “No, for real—they really are. They’re—”

I jab his side with my elbow. “Burke,” I murmur, and his gaze rises to meet mine. “I’m just teasing.” I smile. “Do you think I’d give the kids pigs just to show them how to make bacon?”

He recoils, and I laugh. “I’m just kidding. And we eat turkey bacon.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at his forehead again.

“Heathens. Am I right?” I ask.

He blows a breath out, still massaging his temples. “You had me going for a second there.”

I grin. “You’re a pig enthusiast.”

“I’m no different than the next guy.”

“Who loves piggie wiggies.”

He gives me an unamused look, and I grab his arm. “C’mon. I’ll let you hold one of them.”

“I don’t have to—” The kids interrupt him, cheering as we walk into the pen. “Hold him first,” Oliver says, thrusting George toward him, his little legs kicking in midair. Burke looks alarmed and scoops the little snorter right up.