without hesitation. Without snide remarks or suggestions about how he could change or improve himself because he wasn't good enough.
He'd been good enough for her just as he was.
She was his grandmother, and he barely knew her, yet he loved her fiercely.
But did he love her enough?
* * * *
Jack stared at the empty shelves of his refrigerator. The six-pack of Shiner was nestled in the door tray. Over the last day or so, he'd fed most of his food to Winston during their training sessions. Jack would have to go to the store and do some shopping if he wanted to eat this week.
Winston, on the other hand, had the dog food that Edward had brought him.
Shutting the fridge door, Jack straightened and looked down at the little bulldog.
“Well, buddy. Looks like we're going out for lunch.”
Woof.
“I could go shopping, but I don't really feel like it.” Actually, he hated it. Of the few things that got to him about being alone, shopping for groceries was at the top of his list. There was nothing worse than pushing a half-empty cart down the aisle, picking up beer, chips, cans of soup, and frozen TV dinners.
Nothing said “single and alone” quite like that.
He'd thought after all these years of cooking for himself that he would have become a great chef. But that was so wrong. He'd burn water if given a chance.
Emptying soup into a bowl and microwaving it was the extent of his culinary skills. Sure, he could fry an egg and some bacon. Make toast. Nuke a potato.
But fashion a delicious meal from scratch?
No way. He'd long since gotten tired of throwing away burned, overcooked, or just plain bad-tasting food.
Maybe he'd pick up some steaks and chops. Fire up the grill. He didn't suck at cooking meat over a fire, but for most men that was innate. Something that still lingered in all male genes. A throwback from the time of cavemen.
Fire good.
He chuckled and picked up Winston's leash. “Come on, buddy. Let's go to the drive-through. We'll get a couple of chicken dinners with all the fixings.”
Woof.
The dog danced around his legs, his tongue hanging out of the side of his wide mouth, dark eyes shining.
Jack hooked him up and they left.
Winston trotted over to the cruiser.
“No, buddy. I don't drive that on my days off. Personal time. Personal car.” Jack led him over to his gray Silverado. It was old but paid for, and in Jack's book, that was just fine. He'd never been one of those guys who waited for the newest model to come out so he could trade in the old. He didn't see any sense in paying never-ending car notes.
The old girl didn't have any of the newer fancy gadgets, like a CD player or places to plug in one of those iPods or a cell phone. She was just a good, old-fashioned, American-made, pick-'em-up truck, with all the dents, scraped paint, and road dirt to prove it.
He opened the door, and Winston tried to climb up. His front feet reached the running board, but his back legs couldn't make it. The dog hung, one back leg searching for purchase, as he struggled to get inside.
“Too short, huh?”
Forgetting to worry that the animal might bite him again, Jack leaned down and picked the dog up. Winston was compact, but Christ, the dog had the density of a small planet. He stilled in Jack's arms as he lifted him, then scampered onto the bench seat and trotted over to the passenger side.
Jack got in and started the truck. Winston leaned on the door, pressed his face and flat nose against the window, leaving ugly smears of dog drool and tongue prints that blurred the glass.
Woof. Woof.
“I get the message.” He hit the window control, and Winston's window rolled down. The dog hung over the side, ready to go.
Jack backed out of his drive and headed to town.
Once on Main Street, he slowed as he approached Olivia Rawlings's street.
Plenty of time for a quick cruise around town. Check out things. Roll through the neighborhood.
Hitting the turn indicator, he made the turn. He cruised down the
He'd been good enough for her just as he was.
She was his grandmother, and he barely knew her, yet he loved her fiercely.
But did he love her enough?
* * * *
Jack stared at the empty shelves of his refrigerator. The six-pack of Shiner was nestled in the door tray. Over the last day or so, he'd fed most of his food to Winston during their training sessions. Jack would have to go to the store and do some shopping if he wanted to eat this week.
Winston, on the other hand, had the dog food that Edward had brought him.
Shutting the fridge door, Jack straightened and looked down at the little bulldog.
“Well, buddy. Looks like we're going out for lunch.”
Woof.
“I could go shopping, but I don't really feel like it.” Actually, he hated it. Of the few things that got to him about being alone, shopping for groceries was at the top of his list. There was nothing worse than pushing a half-empty cart down the aisle, picking up beer, chips, cans of soup, and frozen TV dinners.
Nothing said “single and alone” quite like that.
He'd thought after all these years of cooking for himself that he would have become a great chef. But that was so wrong. He'd burn water if given a chance.
Emptying soup into a bowl and microwaving it was the extent of his culinary skills. Sure, he could fry an egg and some bacon. Make toast. Nuke a potato.
But fashion a delicious meal from scratch?
No way. He'd long since gotten tired of throwing away burned, overcooked, or just plain bad-tasting food.
Maybe he'd pick up some steaks and chops. Fire up the grill. He didn't suck at cooking meat over a fire, but for most men that was innate. Something that still lingered in all male genes. A throwback from the time of cavemen.
Fire good.
He chuckled and picked up Winston's leash. “Come on, buddy. Let's go to the drive-through. We'll get a couple of chicken dinners with all the fixings.”
Woof.
The dog danced around his legs, his tongue hanging out of the side of his wide mouth, dark eyes shining.
Jack hooked him up and they left.
Winston trotted over to the cruiser.
“No, buddy. I don't drive that on my days off. Personal time. Personal car.” Jack led him over to his gray Silverado. It was old but paid for, and in Jack's book, that was just fine. He'd never been one of those guys who waited for the newest model to come out so he could trade in the old. He didn't see any sense in paying never-ending car notes.
The old girl didn't have any of the newer fancy gadgets, like a CD player or places to plug in one of those iPods or a cell phone. She was just a good, old-fashioned, American-made, pick-'em-up truck, with all the dents, scraped paint, and road dirt to prove it.
He opened the door, and Winston tried to climb up. His front feet reached the running board, but his back legs couldn't make it. The dog hung, one back leg searching for purchase, as he struggled to get inside.
“Too short, huh?”
Forgetting to worry that the animal might bite him again, Jack leaned down and picked the dog up. Winston was compact, but Christ, the dog had the density of a small planet. He stilled in Jack's arms as he lifted him, then scampered onto the bench seat and trotted over to the passenger side.
Jack got in and started the truck. Winston leaned on the door, pressed his face and flat nose against the window, leaving ugly smears of dog drool and tongue prints that blurred the glass.
Woof. Woof.
“I get the message.” He hit the window control, and Winston's window rolled down. The dog hung over the side, ready to go.
Jack backed out of his drive and headed to town.
Once on Main Street, he slowed as he approached Olivia Rawlings's street.
Plenty of time for a quick cruise around town. Check out things. Roll through the neighborhood.
Hitting the turn indicator, he made the turn. He cruised down the
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