He came bearing expensive coffee and the right kind of muffins, and he felt oddly nervous. The last thing he’d meant to do was hurt her, but it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything right lately.
One of the volunteers he recognized—luckily not Dustin—let him in, and pointed him toward the playroom when he asked for Maisie.
“She’ll be grateful for the coffee,” the volunteer said with a smile. “She’s been pulling long hours with Beatrice all week on the new funding drive.”
Which meant she almost certainly hadn’t been sick, not that he’d really believed her story. Still, it put a pit in his stomach that she’d lied to him. That she’d gone out of her way not to see him. That she’d left him like Georgie, like Finn, like Beau. But he could still make things right with Maisie.
He had to.
He knocked on the door, using the secret knock they’d developed as teens, and instead of answering, she just opened it.
She did look tired. Her hair was still wet, flatter than it would be in a few hours when it finally dried and the curls sprang up, and the circles under her eyes made it look like she hadn’t been sleeping.
But something inside of him eased upon seeing her. The look in her eyes told him she was glad he was here. That she didn’t want him to leave.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said, lifting up the cup and the bag.
She lifted an eyebrow, and before she could say anything, he preempted her with, “And yes, it is the right kind of muffin.”
“Thank God,” she said, taking his offerings. “Otherwise I would have had to send you back, and you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
She ushered him in, and he felt all the relief of being wanted.
Part of him had expected another avalanche of puppies, but the dog in the room was one he hadn’t seen before, a red husky.
“A new kid?” he asked, nodding to the dog, who’d padded over and was sniffing him with interest. Smelling Hops, no doubt.
“Meet Tyrion, the escape artist. Owner was watching too much Game of Thrones, confused huskies for direwolves, and realized they’re a lot of work.”
She shrugged, but he caught the flash of righteous anger in her eyes. It would never sit all right with her that people abandoned their dogs, or their children.
“Good thing he found you,” he said, and meant it.
He sat down at the table and looked up at her, feeling for all the world like that kid again.
“You were sick?” he asked.
She blew a few stray hairs out of her face and sat opposite him. Took a swig of the coffee that probably burned her tongue. “I felt sick, but maybe I kind of, sort of exaggerated.”
“I know I was harsh last week,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t because of anything you did. It just felt like the world was against me.” He paused, swallowed. “Or at least against me and Georgie.”
She must have heard something in his voice, because her eyes softened even more, the sympathy there a welcome balm.
“And I should have listened a lot better,” she said. She paused, then added, “I guess I’ve just never seen you go this gaga over anyone before. I was worried—I am worried—and I didn’t know what to do. But I’m ready to listen now if you want to talk.”
And he was, and he did. Of course, he didn’t say anything more about his night with Georgie. Maisie knew, sort of, and the details were between him and Georgie. He also didn’t mention the noncompete or the addendum to the handbook. Midway through the telling, Tyrion padded over to the table and sat, his posture regal, to listen too.
“The party’s Saturday,” he finished. “You’ll come, right?”
“Maybe,” she said, popping the last piece of muffin. “It’s been a bit of a nightmare around here. We’re short on funding, again, and we need to put in another big push this weekend. I’ll be there if I can. And by there, I mean at Dottie’s after-party.” She grinned. “I’m no fool. I know where the real fun’s at.”
“Of course,” he said, a return grin tugging at his face. “And if you need any help with the fundraising, just let me know. Maybe we can do some sort of event or drive for you once the brewery reopens. I’ll talk to Georgie about it.”
“Thanks. And while we’re talking about Georgie…” Maisie leaned over, giving Tyrion a pat, and didn’t look at him. “I know it’s hard, but maybe she’s right. It sounds like you work well together, and it would be a shame to mess with that for something as unsure as a relationship. Especially since—”
He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Especially since I’ve never had a long one. But Maisie, this is different. Georgie’s different.”
“Yeah,” she said, “I can see that. But all you can do is wait. Sometimes that’s all a person can do.” The way she said it almost held a note of bitterness. He was about to ask her if she was okay, but someone knocked on the door.
“Maisie,” the volunteer from earlier called. “One of the foster families is calling. Adonis needs to go to the vet.”
Genuine worry flashed on Maisie’s face. “He has a heart condition,” she explained. “I’ve got to take this, but maybe we can get lunch sometime soon.” She wagged a finger in his face like a schoolmarm. “I still need that computer.”
It had been ruined, along with a lot of other stuff. The house was still a bit of a mess, but Georgie, with her siblings’ approval, had brought in contractors to update it while they fixed the damage. He couldn’t help but wonder if the others did anything beyond order her around and okay her choices.
She’d shown him pictures of the downstairs in one of those rare moments they’d been alone together. Her hand had grazed his as he took her phone, sending a rush of sensation through him, and she’d kept it like that—their hands touching—for longer than needed. Their eyes had met as he handed it back, and she’d opened her mouth to say something—
Only for the video app to ring with a call from Jack.
Jack was great at getting in the way, even from Chicago, although perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair.
“You got it,” he said, giving Tyrion a pat as Maisie led him out of the room.
He headed back to his car, feeling restless, and found himself driving somewhere unexpected. The cemetery. Beau had a nice spot, beneath a large oak tree, and someone—he suspected Aunt Dottie—had left a bouquet of hops.
He felt a little uncomfortable being there, like it was maybe stupid of him to try talking to a dead man, communing with one. A quick glance told him no one was around, and he sat at the base of the grave and looked up at the sky, as if to see Beau’s view from down below.
“I think I love her, Beau,” he whispered, worried even now that someone might hear him. “I haven’t told anyone else, not even Aunt Dottie, although she probably knows. I know it’s too early to think that way, but I can’t help it. You’d understand. You must have seen what I see, because there’s something about Georgie that just sparkles.”
He swallowed thickly. “We’re trying to do right by you,” he said. “I think you’d be proud of the direction we’re taking with the brewery, and these parties on Saturday? They’ll be a celebration of everything you did. Of who you were.” A grin split his face. “Right down to that statue you must have modeled for.”