Georgie, All Along (17)

I stiffen on instinct, and I don’t know why. I’ve got a good relationship with Paul; we talk business and obviously he trusts me enough to stay in his house and watch over things while he’s away. But it’s old wounds, imagining he’s in a mind to give her some kind of private warning. He’d do it nice: Levi Fanning’s an all right guy, but I don’t know if you ought to be spending time with him.

It makes me want to walk right out that door.

But before I can do anything, Georgie’s tapped the screen of her phone and held it up to her ear, sending me another apologetic glance before turning her back and moving back into the living room, the robe rippling behind her again. Hypnotizing, that thing. Anyway, it’d be weird to leave while she’s in there, disorienting probably, so I lean back on the counter and cross my arms to wait. Hank raises his head from the rug and gives me a look that says, I like this rug and I ain’t leaving. I don’t know if I can find a hotel that’ll take him, so I’ll have to ask if that daycare place can board him overnight. I hate the thought of it. Maybe I’m fussy about my dog, but me and Hank, we’re a team, have been since the day I brought him home with me.

I’m still working it out in my head, what I’m going to do with him and myself for the next couple of weeks while Carlos’s—dang, my house—is getting torn up, when Georgie comes back in. She’s smiling again, but it’s different this time, and I can only assume it’s fake.

“Guess we’re roommates for a bit,” she says, shrugging.

“Naw,” I say, shaking my head, tugging on the brim of my cap. “I’ll leave you to it. I know this must be uncomfortable for you.” I gesture to the wasp spray.

“I trust my dad,” she says, shrugging again. “It’ll be fine.”

I shake my head again. That’s nice, whatever her dad said, but this is crazy, staying in a house with this woman I don’t know.

“But if you want, I can try to go stay with my friend for the next couple of weeks. Maybe not tonight, because . . .” she trails off, then presses her lips together. “It doesn’t matter, the because. But I could probably go there tomorrow.”

“This is your place,” I say.

“No more than it is yours,” she answers, which is a pretty strange thing to say about the house where you grew up, but who am I to say. I haven’t been back to my childhood home in over a decade. “Anyway, I owe you for the milkshakes.”

It’s the first time she’s brought up that we met—such as it was—earlier today. Frankly I wasn’t even sure she remembered. She’d seemed pretty flustered in Nickel’s, which I get. Mrs. Michaels still makes me feel like I ought to be standing up straighter, even if I never listened to her back then.

I make a noise, probably close to a grunt. I don’t want her to owe me for the milkshakes.

She blows out a breath.

“Look,” she says. “I have had a long day. Series of days, really. I know this is weird, but there’s two bedrooms here and locks on both the doors, plus, I’ve got the wasp spray.” She nods toward it and blows a wayward strand of hair out of her face. “You had a plan for yourself and your dog and it’ll be a hassle to try to change it right now, even if you’re wanting to. So let’s be roommates for the night and we can figure out things tomorrow.”

Hank farts.

“Sorry,” I mutter, sending him a scolding look. He’s got no fucking idea why; he’s a dog.

“What’re you sorry for?” she echoes me, that genuine, knowing smile on her lips again.

“He probably has some stomach upset today. Out of his routine and all.” Hank never does all that good at daycare places; he gets too nervous with all the other dogs barking. He’s a people dog, mostly a me dog.

“Sure, totally,” she says, which is a kindness. The fact is, she’s taking this whole situation more in stride than me. I prefer things settled, solid and planned out, which is probably why I shouldn’t have counted on Paul Mulcahy to set me up for a couple of weeks.

“I’ll take my parents’ room,” she says, as if she’s done talking it over. “I haven’t looked in there yet, but I know my old room still has a full-size bed. You may have to move some of my mom’s craft stuff around.”

I don’t want to tell her that I already moved a fair bit of craft stuff around. When I first came over here there were twenty-five tissue paper flowers on the dining room table. Shyla does crafts to keep her hands limber, I know, and even if I’m not much one for flowers, I thought they looked nice. I moved them, one by one, real careful-like, onto the top of the dresser in the room where I guess I’ll still be sleeping tonight.

Georgie goes on, obviously having fully accepted this thing. “I’ll pick up my stuff from the floor and get a quick shower.” She pauses and eyes the notebook, then grabs it up and holds it close to her chest. “I’ve got some . . . uh . . . plans to make, so I’ll go to my room after that. Then it’ll be all yours. Do you get up early?”

I snort. “Yeah,” I say, because my kind of early is an understatement for most people. I always have so much to do, keeping the business going, especially when we’re in the warmer months. Plus, Hank has his routine.

“Okay, so you’ll probably be gone before I get up. I’m still adjusting from West Coast time.”