TWENTY-EIGHT
Rigatoni made himself comfy on the couch, his head in Charlie’s lap.
James sat in the leather recliner. His beer rested on a TV tray next to him.
“It’s so quiet in here.”
“I could put on some music,” he offered.
Charlie held up a hand. “No, that’s okay.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “If you don’t want to tell me—”
“I do. I want to tell you. I just don’t want you to judge me, or look at me differently, is all.” She sat with her legs tucked under her. She patted the top of Rigs’ head, focusing a lot of attention on his silky ears. “I guess you can say I thought I’d fallen in love. It started that way, anyway. When I first met Ian—”
“Ian?”
Charlie shot him a look.
He pantomimed zipping his lips closed. He held up both hands in surrender. “Sorry. Please, continue.”
