Every once in a while, she still texted him. Mostly hilarious memes and gifs and pictures of the funny faces made by the baby she had with her now husband.

So yeah.

Definitely worth sloppy blowjobs.

Sarong girl had only lasted the night.

Jordan had fucked his way through the Keys, stating, “One day, I’ll find the right one. And then playtime will be done. Since I want a lot of kids, I’m gonna have to get on that. So I don’t got a lot of time to have this kind of fun. Which means I gotta get what I can while I can get it.”

Jordan had been wrong, he didn’t find the right one.

But he was also right, he didn’t have a lot of time.

So it was good he took what he could get.

And had fun while it lasted.

Axl had pulled out the photos yesterday, their Sunday, and shown them to Hattie.

And he’d laughed when he’d told her about their time in the Keys.

Today, she’d found a frame and put Jordan—the real Jordan, the one he needed to remember, the one he got drunk with and laughed with and caroused with, the one who knew he’d be faithful to his wife and make a lot of kids—that Jordan was now in his house.

There was also Hattie’s note on the dresser, and when Axl could tear his eyes from the picture, and his mind from the memories, he picked it up.

Honey,

I’m at the studio.

 Can you meet me there?

xx-Hattie

He felt a frisson trace up the back of his neck.

Because she didn’t text that or give him a call.

She put that note by that picture on her dresser.

And wanted him at her studio.

He dropped the note on the dresser, took another look at the picture in the frame, and calling good-bye to Cleo, who had no reply, he went back out to his Jeep and drove to her studio.

Her Rogue was parked outside of it.

She was starting week two of her time off from Smithie’s. There had been a lot going on before, with life, his mom and dad, another meet with her mom and boyfriend (that went a lot better, thankfully), Lottie’s bachelorette party, Mo’s bachelor party, and the wedding a week ago where Axl got to spend all day with her wearing that amazing bridesmaid dress celebrating their two friends getting hitched.

But when she could get there, she was in her studio a lot.

Including the last week, when she was up with him at six or earlier, and they kissed in the garage before getting in their respective cars and taking off for their days.

His meaning he’d go to work, and hers meaning she’d go to her art (his house, by the way, had become their default, and her two drawers were filled, his extra closet half filled—he dug her space, especially her bedroom, but his place had Pac-Man).

Sundays were the only days she took off.

Sadie had transferred several pieces to her back room in prep for the show that was happening in a few weeks, so Hattie had more room to create.

Axl hadn’t been there since the day she got her show.

He knocked twice before he went in.

The first thing he saw was scuttling across the floor.

Two balls of fluff with black faces, curled tails, one with black-tipped brown fur on her body, the other had a creamier coat, both had white chests.

His mom’s Pekingese.

Making up for lost time, and lost opportunities to spoil pets, Mom didn’t get one puppy, she got two. A sister and brother.

His mom had named them Molly and Wellington, or Welly.

Hattie called them Floof One (Molly) and Floof Two (Welly).

They jumped around his boots, so obviously he had no choice but to pick them both up and give them a squeeze.

He got puppy breath in his face and puppy saliva on his jaw as he walked in, wondering why his mother’s dogs were in Hattie’s studio and wondering where Hattie was in her studio.

But moving in, he circumvented a big crate, which probably meant Sadie was taking more pieces away.

And that was when he saw it.

He stopped dead with two puppies squirming in his hands.

And he took it in.

Life-size, a man made of steel. Some small sheets and triangles, but mostly ribbons and straws of it forming a body, head, face and hair.

The eyes, though, looked to be smooth aquamarines.

The figure was in a deep squat, one knee bent, his other almost, but not quite, on the ground.

His arms, though, were straight up.

And suspended precariously on rebar you could see running through the ribbons of steel that made up his body, his fingers were wrapped around the waist of a woman made of concrete.

And she was soaring.

Over his right shoulder, one leg front, one leg behind, her back, neck and head arched, arms out to her sides.

Him.

And Hattie.

“Your mom had a client meeting tonight,” her voice came from behind him.

He turned.

She stood there leaning against the crate in her work clothes, cutoff jean shorts and a tank, ratty old red Keds that were serious cool, her hair in a big bunch on the top of her head, curls dropping down the sides and around her neck.

No makeup.

Total pretty.

Her gaze went to the puppies in his hands, then to his eyes.

And she kept talking.

“She didn’t trust these little guys alone in her new condo with her new furniture as Welly is being stubborn about house training and she’s a pushover about not putting them in their crates because Molly hates the crate. So I told her they could come to the studio. I need to drop them off on the way home.”

His voice was gruff when he stated, “I told her the breed was stubborn.”

“No, you told her they were stubborn and sloth-like,” she corrected.

“Because that’s what the website said,” he reminded her. “She’s committing to hopefully a couple decades with these things.” He jostled the fur balls that were wriggling in his hands. “She needed to know what she was in for.”

Her face changed.

Fuck.

So goddamn pretty.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “it doesn’t matter. If a being is precious, even the bad parts are parts you need.”

He swallowed.

And his voice was downright rough when he asked, “What’s that?”

She knew what he was asking when her eyes went beyond him to the sculpture.

But they came right back to him.

“You. And me.”

Good Christ.

Good Christ.

Fuck.

The puppies kept squirming.