Page 66 of The Route to You

“Can we even bring a dirty and abandoned mutt into their house?”

“Oh, they have a barn that’s right behind the house. They’re horse people.”

“Of course they are.”

“Speaking of dogs.” Kyle flicked his gaze at Charlie through the rearview mirror. He was asleep, though he didn’t look comfortable. “What’s our plan here with Charlie? Patch him up, and take him with us? Find a shelter?”

“A shelter?” Sloan’s jaw dropped. “No, he’s ours now.”

Ours.

The word cracked through the Jeep.

“Mine, I mean,” Sloan managed, redness creeping into her cheeks.

Ours?

Kyle’s mouth dried. She’d said it so easily, too. Like she’d yanked the groom off her wedding cake and shoved a little statue of him there instead.

Maybe not the best analogy. But still.

His heart stuttered. “You want to keep him?” he croaked out, before he let his thoughts spiral.

“No! I mean, yes. I . . . the dog. Yes, I want to keep the dog. Charlie.”

God, that question somehow made it all worse.

And, just like that, he felt choked. Like the oxygen had completely gone out of the Jeep.

Maybe this had been going too well. Too smoothly. Which was saying something, because he couldn’t think of a more disastrous last couple of days.

But he and Sloan had been getting along well.

He didn’t want to ruin that.

He also didn’t want . . . well, to somehow turn this into something it wasn’t. For either of them.

Think carefully.

“Before you get too attached . . . to Charlie,” he scraped out. “We should probably check to see if he’s microchipped—on the off chance he wasn’t abandoned and ran away or got loose.” He managed to meet her gaze. “He might already belong to someone.”

Motherfucking double entendre.

Everything he was saying somehow seemed to be not about Charlie.

And Sloan seemed to know it, too. Her eyes went wide. “Does he?”

“No.” He blinked hard. “I mean, I don’t know. I have no idea if he’s microchipped.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I just . . . I want to keep him, if I can.”

Kyle’s gaze locked outside the windshield.

Now who in the hell was she talking about?

Better not to think about it. They’d pulled up anyway, and a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a yellow shawl was coming down the front steps toward them, like the snow didn’t bother her one bit.

He killed the engine, but Sloan had already jumped out of the car.