Page 64 of The Trouble with Flings

Fitz’s eyes light up as brightly as the golden retriever’s who’s watching us approach. “It’s dog friendly?”

“Yeah. Do you like dogs?”

“More than some humans I know.” Fitz heads straight for the retriever and looks at the older woman holding its leash. “Is it okay if we say hello?”

She smiles warmly. “She’d love it. Her name is Mandy.”

“Hello, Mandy,” Fitz says, putting down the laundry tote and crouching to pet the dog.

I want to pet Mandy, too, but I’m mesmerized by the sight of Fitz loving her up. He scratches behind her ears, murmuring things I can’t hear, while the dog’s tail wags happily. The woman is looking at him like most women look at men who are good with animals. Like they’re the ones we should hold on to. I look at him with a whole lot of other emotions that I’m going to blame on my hormones and leave it at that.

“Thank you. Have a nice day,” Fitz says to the woman, and then he opens the door to the café and holds it for a couple to walk out before we head inside.

The café is as busy as always, the din of conversation mixing with the scents of rich roasts and fresh-baked goods. Fitz’s hand comes to rest on my lower back as he checks out the handwritten chalkboard menu spanning the wall behind the counter and the framed photographs of customers and their dogs decorating the walls in haphazard fashion.

“This place is great,” he says, watching a toddler in a high chair dismantling a muffin. He smiles, nodding in that direction as if we’re a couple who does this—watches other people’s kids and gets enjoyment out of it.

The kid is cute, but I’m still trying to get used to the fact that I’m incubating one of those tiny humans. Which makes smiling at someone else’s child, while standing in my favorite coffee shop with Fitz’s hand on my back, feel a little like being handed a pop quiz I didn’t study for.

A burly bulldog sniffs my leg. Thankful for the distraction, I ask if we can pet him, and we spend a minute saying hello before stepping into line.

Fitz presses his hand to my back again. “I guess this means you like dogs?”

“I do. We had a Great Dane named Biscuit when I was growing up.” I haven’t said that name out loud in years, and a wave of nostalgia hits me.

“Biscuit?” he asks.

“His real name was Buck, but he used to steal biscuits off the counter when they were cooling, so he became Biscuit. He was the best dog, gray with black spots, and always happy to see us. He used to wait by the window for us after school.”

“They say nothing compares to a dog’s unconditional love.”

“It’s true. If humans were more like dogs, I think relationships would last longer.”

Fitz leans closer and whispers, “I’m pretty good at panting around you.”

I laugh.

“How long did you have Biscuit?”

“Until I was fifteen. He lived to be nine, which everyone said was good for a Great Dane, but I always thought it was unfair. Nine isn’t old enough.”

“Was he your only pet?” he asks as we move with the line.

“Yeah. After college I moved to the city, and it just never made sense to get one. What about you?”

He shakes his head. “We never had any pets. What kind of dog would you get if you could? Another Great Dane?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. My life isn’t conducive to a dog, and I’m currently trying to figure out how to fit something far more important into my life,” I say as the couple in front of us pays.

Fitz’s hand slides around my waist, and he hugs me against his side. He kisses my temple, which tweaks those heartstrings I’ve recently become aware of, and whispers, “Is caffeine okay while you’re pregnant?”

The question has my thoughts tripping over each other. “My doctor said to watch it, but I don’t remember specifics.” What else did I miss?

He pulls out his phone and googles it. “They suggest limiting it to two hundred milligrams a day, which is the equivalent of one twelve-ounce cup. Yikes.”

Yikes is right. That’s just one more way this is going to change my life. I try to distract myself from those thoughts by drooling over the pastry display.

My favorite barista, Paisley, greets me as enthusiastically as she always does with, “Hey, No Frills in a Hurry.” She’s a perpetually cheerful twentysomething with a terrier mix of her own behind the counter. “The usual?”