Page 10 of Crowbar

Spencer stared at me. Then he looked at Gunner. “Something just struck me. Your name is Crowbar and you named your dog Gunner.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you born in an action movie? Is there a sequel? Do explosions happen when you walk away from things?”

“Only when I eat chili.”

That laugh again. Short, startled, like I’d caught him off guard. He pressed his lips together, trying to kill it, but his eyes were still bright and his shoulders were shaking with the effort.

“Crowbar,” he repeated. The way he said it, almost reverent, like he was handling something he wasn’t sure how to hold. “Stop staring. Those were legitimate questions.”

“You’re holding my dog hostage,” I pointed out.

“She loves me. That’s not a hostage situation. That’s a custody preference.” He finally glanced at me, and the flush had crept from his cheeks down the side of his neck. “Besides, you look like the kind of guy who could take her back if he really wanted to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Spencer’s hand stilled on Gunner’s nose, and I watched his throat work around a swallow. His eyes held mine for a beat too long.

“Well,” he said, voice a fraction softer, “then I guess she’s mine now. I’ll send you visitation schedules.”

“Generous.” I leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, the pee pads tucked under one elbow. The position put me closer to his height, though closer was relative when there was a full foot between us. From this angle, I could see the faint shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping.

“I’m a generous person. Ask General Patton. He’s called me a dipshit three times today and I didn’t get offended.”

Gunner sneezed in her sleep, and Spencer laughed again, quieter this time, directed at the puppy instead of me.

“Spencer.”

He looked up. Something about the way I said his name made the color deepen along his jaw.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

His lips parted. Gunner snored softly against his chest, completely unhelpful.

“After my shift?” he repeated, like he was translating from another language. “Today? After this shift? The one I’m currently working?”

“That’s the one.”

“I—well, I was going to reorganize my spice rack because I bought new labels and the old ones are peeling, and then maybe watch something terrible on TV, but not too terrible because I have standards, low ones, but they exist, and—” He stopped and drew a breath. The flush had spread to the tips of his ears. “Are you asking me to hang out?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, with you specifically?”

“That’s generally what asking implies.”

“Right. Yes. Obviously.” He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying to dam the flood of words. “It’s just… People don’t usually… I mean, you don’t seem like the type who—and I’m me, which is—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes. The answer is yes. I’d like that.”

My chest loosened. The toothpick rolled across my bottom lip. I watched his eyes go wide, then narrow, then wide again.

“Where?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing beautifully.

“Deluca’s Auto Repair. We cookout on Fridays. Bring Gunner cupcakes if you want.”

“Her name is—wait.” His head tilted. “How did you know I made cupcakes?”

“You’ve got frosting on your chin.”