“Not at all,” he fumbled with the keys before finally resting on one and unlocking the door. “Hey, Babbitt. Good boy.” He reached down and patted the head of an adorable husky. “This is Rylie. Can you say hello?”
Babbitt let out a loud yowl.
I bent down and scratched him under the chin. “Hello Babbitt, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He responded with a big kiss.
“The bathroom’s right through there,” Garrett pointed down the hallway and then flopped down on the plush leather sofa, Babbitt coming to rest on the floor next to him.
The inside of his home was completely opposite from what I had expected. It was spotless. Decorated in the latest décor, it looked like a page out of Modern Homes Magazine. The only personal photos were of him with Babbitt and various children—likely the nieces and nephews he’d raved about at dinner.
Hardwood floors stretched throughout the open concept living room and kitchen and led to a set of stairs up to the second story of the house, a few closed doors, which probably led to bedrooms, and a door to the garage.
The bathroom was pristine. I opened the medicine cabinet as quietly as possible to find absolutely nothing. Not one single bottle of any sort, prescription or not.
Where were the bottles I’d seen in his tackle box? Maybe they were still in the tackle box. Or in the master bathroom.
I closed the cabinet door.
What was I doing? Seamus was right. I was looking for trouble that wasn’t even there.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I stopped to watch Garrett play with Babbitt. He would tell Babbitt to stay, and Babbitt would stay still as a statue until Garrett said, “Sick,” and Babbitt would attack the plush toy duck on the floor.
“Did you find it okay?” he mumbled when I walked over to the couch.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for dinner. I should probably be going.”
“You’re not going to go to the Broncos game with me are you?”
“Uh,” I contemplated whether to be honest or not. Part of me really wanted to go to the game, but dating shouldn’t feel like babysitting my four-year-old nephew.
“Don’t worry about it. I understand.” His eyes were closed with one of his arms draped over his forehead.
I sat down on the edge of the couch and scratched Babbitt behind the ears. “Are you going to be okay tonight by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got Babbitt,” he said. I went to stand, but he gently grabbed my hand—his palm as smooth as a brand new tub of butter. “I’m sorry I messed up our date. I guess I got nervous to go out with someone as cool as you.”
“I’m not that cool,” I said.
His big blue eyes focused on my face, a smile breached his lips. “Yes. You are.”
I returned his grin.
“Will you at least sleep on it before you completely turn me down for the Broncos game?”
I thought about it for a couple of seconds. What was the worst that could happen if I went on another date with him? He’d get drunk again and I’d call him an Uber? At least I’d get to see the game in person.
“You know what? I don’t have to sleep on it.” I squeezed his hand. “I’ll go to the game with you.”
“You won’t regret it.” He rubbed his thumb over mine sending shivers up my arm. “And I promise not to get plastered.”
“Deal.”
6
“Rylie?” My mother’s voice and a tap at my door woke me five minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. Five precious minutes of sleep gone.
“What, Mom?”
She opened the door as if my response was an invitation to come in.
“I wanted to make sure you got home alive.”
She’d waited long enough. If something had happened the night before, my body would be cold and stiff by now.
“Thanks for checking in,” I mumbled from under my pillow. “I’m good,”
“You know, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go on dates with men you’ve only met on the Internet. There’s this thing called catfishing, and it sounds dangerous—especially after what happened at the reservoir when you started there.”
I pulled the pillow off my head and reminded myself she was only trying to look out for my best interests. “Mom, catfishing, in the dating sense, is when someone acts like they’re someone else. They never actually meet you in person because they’re not real. I’m in no danger of being catfished.”
“Okay maybe not that, but still, those men seem to be after only one thing . . .”
One thing I hadn’t had in months. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
She exhaled, voicing her dissatisfaction with my response more than the pained look on her face and stood up. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
The moment the door clicked into place behind her my alarm clock blared notifying me that sleep was another many hours away. Fizzy groaned.
“Me too, bud.” I patted his head and rolled out from under the covers.
I pulled into the shop parking lot and took the last sip of my latte. Only eight hours before I’d be on my way back to my bed.
“You look really tired,” Shayla said when she pulled up next to me in her bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle—the emoji on wheels.
“I am really tired,” I replied with a laugh.
“That can only mean one thing.” Her voice raised an octave.
“It wasn’t nearly as good as you’d think.”
We gathered our bags from the trunks of our cars and pulled on our gear belts that held a flashlight, pepper spray, a set of keys, and some gloves.
“Go on, tell me everything.” Shayla’s eyes sparkled in the late morning sun.
“Why are you so cheery? Is your mom out of town this week?” When her mom—the retired hard-assed cop—was out of town Shayla got full reign of the house
