I was still the big spoon the next morning. In my arms, Rosie was tucked up in a little ball. My body curved along hers, and my chin was just above her shoulder. I pulled her into me, banking 50/50 that my morning wood would wake her up. Kind of hoped it did, kind of hoped it didn’t. But she was sound asleep, deep in a dream so intense I could see the worry on her face. Peter Rabbit was smashed between her body and her arm, his ear folded down over his face. I watched her for a while, as the sun came up, and as Julia stretched and tugged at the carpet with her claws. I thought about the things I didn’t know about Rosie—what she dreamed about, what she wanted, what she hoped to have in the future. So much shit we’d never really had to discuss. Plans. Big ideas. Fears.

Life. I wanted to know what she wanted out of life.

I knew all about the little stuff that filled up the days. What annoyed her, what made her laugh. But the big stuff, the movie poster version of her future? I thought I knew. But I wasn’t sure.

Project one: Figure all that out. Everything. Every last detail that was Rosie Madden. Everything that made the sweetheart tick.

But also on the docket, I realized as my stomach growled, was project two: Breakfast. The growling was pretty intense, loud enough to make Julia’s ears move. No way was I letting it wake up Rosie. So I got out of bed and pulled on my boxers, adjusting my balls, and making sure the stallion stayed in the barn. She really was making an animal out of me. My usual morning wood was nothing compared to this. But I tucked my cock under my waistband and pulled myself together. As I opened the bedroom door, Julia made a kamikaze dive for freedom, but I picked her up in the nick of time. She hadn’t met Cupcake yet, and I figured that introduction was best made in a more strategic way than her thumping down the stairs and attaching herself to the dog crate like something out of a cartoon. So I gave her a good scratch on her back, lulling her into docile slowness, and slipped from the bedroom. As I headed down the hallway, I heard her thump her nose against the door and let out a low and disappointed grunt.

Even before I saw her, I knew Cupcake was having a drink of water, using the water bottle I’d installed in her crate—the sort of thing that looked designed for the world’s biggest hamster. I heard the gentle rolling of the ball bearing in the tube, and the sound of her lapping up the droplets. But as soon as the last stair squeaked under my foot, she stopped. I came around the sofa, and she started spinning circles in her crate, her claws scratching the plastic as she pushed her blankets aside.

“Heyyyy!” I whispered, getting down on my knees. She launched herself at the crate door, licking the metal, and then tumbled out into my lap when I opened the latch. She scrambled up my knees and climbed as high as she could onto my chest. I bent down for a whole smattering of dog kisses. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. Even up the nostrils. OMG, OMG, OMG!

“You need to go out, little lady,” I told her. She rolled onto her back in my lap, and I gave her a tiny raspberry on her stomach, which just made her go into crazier wiggles and squirms. I scooped her up and cradled her with one arm as I stood. “You think you’ll be okay off your leash?” I asked her. I even waited. For an answer.

I really was just so freaking whipped.

She did look like she was thinking about it, like she was listening hard for a word she knew. I set her down on the rug and asked, “Wanna go for a walk?”

And she exploded in a crazy two-legged dance, like one of those poodles on YouTube that dances around in a tutu.

But before I ventured out there with her unleashed, I wanted to be sure. I told her to sit, and she did. I told her to stay and then turned my back on her to start the hot water kettle. She didn’t move a muscle. She made a huffing whine, the way Rosie did when the ice cream shop was out of pistachio. Come onnnnnnnnnn.

Still, though, it was risky. Cupcake had gotten away from her owners somehow, and it seemed like I’d be the worst foster dad in the world if I put her in danger in the Maine woods, too. So rather than chance it, I grabbed her harness. I put her on the arm of the couch, and I suited her up, maneuvering one funny little leg between the straps and then the other. I clipped it tight, hooked on the leash, and took her outside. The sun was brilliant, the day was perfect. Cupcake sniffed a little patch of grass by a bed full of peonies and then squatted to pee.

I looked up at Rosie’s window and saw Julia watching us. I gave her a respectful salute, and she swished her tail.

Back inside, I got Cupcake’s breakfast ready and served it to her in a little soup bowl. I refilled her water and checked my phone to see if the vet had called. I was so fucking relieved that they hadn’t, I felt a sting in my nostrils. I watched her gobble up her breakfast and told myself over and over, Don’t get attached. Do not get fucking attached.

She crunched away on some kibble and looked up at me as she chewed. She stopped mid-crunch, and a piece of kibble fell out of her mouth onto her foot, which startled her. She jumped and skittered, she bounced into the cabinet and smacked her face on the front of the dishwasher.

Too late. Too fucking late.

To divert my thoughts from the agony of having to give her up, I focused on the most immediate task. I found a tray next to the fridge. On that, I put a glass of water and a glass of orange juice. I toasted two slices of bread and put on a thick coating of peanut butter. I even found a little vase in the vitamin cabinet, so I rinsed that out and filled it halfway with water. I actually had no fucking idea how to even really set a table, but I did my best. I lined up the fork and knife and made sure she had a spoon for a coffee.

I grabbed scissors from the drawer with the rubber bands and was just about to step outside when I saw a piece of paper thumbtacked to the little board over the hook where Rosie hung her purse. Something about it, the fact that it was folded in half, maybe, told me it was something she didn’t want me to see. Something important, judging from where she’d stuck it, but something worrisome, too. Right next to it was her car insurance reminder—that kind of an important bummer. I lifted the corner of the folded page and saw that the handwriting was hard, and in all caps. Repair northwest gutter leak. Wet rot on trim, see drawing. The inspection results.

I removed the thumbtack and opened it up. It was bad. Not exactly a surprise, but still a fucking pisser. It was an inspection report that would’ve driven me to a night-long bender, so I didn’t blame Rosie for not telling me—it wasn’t exactly an inspection anybody would want to get ever, especially not if you were trying to sell your place, and quick.

I scanned through the notes. This guy Bremmer hadn’t fucked her over, which was a damned good thing for his sake. But even without talking to her, I knew there was no way she could cover these repairs on her own. The little stuff, even more than the big stuff, would add up quicker than she’d imagine. The repairs I’d made so far had helped, but there was still a shitload to be done. Some of it I couldn’t do myself, like the foundation repair. She was also way too fucking proud to just straight up take my money, even if I did want to play general contractor for her.

Carefully, I repinned the sheet back on the board and went out to snip a rose for her as I thought about what to do. It was in full bloom, a bright pink, absolutely fucking beautiful. Just like her. Almost too pretty to believe. With the rose in hand, I went back into the kitchen and placed it in the vase. I measured out a few scoops of coffee into a French press and added boiling water and then waited for the grounds to brew.

She wouldn’t take my money, but she might agree to something else. A week ago, I’d have gone soft and gentle. But now, I knew her better. And now, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. So I pushed down the plunger on the French press, picked up the tray, and headed upstairs.