The Conundrum of Collies (Love & Pets #6) - A.G. Henley Page 0,16

should do. I should floss more, clean the house more, work during the day and sleep at night more, and dress and act more like an adult. My brain doesn’t seem to follow the same pathways as most people. But I don’t say all of that.

I lay my hand on Logan’s arm instead. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He wraps my fingers around his bicep and adds jokingly, “Now hold my hand while we cross the street.”

A feather runs up my own arm, or at least that’s what it feels like, but I ignore the old, familiar sensation that I get when Logan touches me. I ignore it because he’s my oldest, best, and occasionally solitary friend. And nothing else.

Mom and Lamar’s home in South Park Hill is a gorgeous two-story brick Denver square on an oversized lot with beautiful, lush landscaping. The house is perfectly maintained, and the yard could be the green of a fancy golf course. I ring the doorbell. No one answers, but music drifts from the fenced back yard, so we head around back.

Their yard is my favorite part of the home. It’s wide and deep with a circular stone patio, a built-in fireplace and grill, and several shade trees, one with a long rope swing for Jazzy and another with a hammock. I’d spent many a happy afternoon in that hammock napping, reading, or borrowing their Netflix back when I couldn’t afford my own account.

Mom reclines on a lounger on the patio, talking on the phone. She waves at us excitedly and gestures toward the open French doors at the back of the house. I pull a bottle of wine from my backpack and wave it at Mom with a questioning look. She points to her already full glass of red. I give her a thumbs up.

Logan makes a noise. “Ah ha. There is a secret language between mothers and daughters. I think I read an article about it in Popular Science.”

I snort. “More likely you saw us in Wine Enthusiast.” I poke my head in the doorway. A delicious, seafoody scent wafts to my nostrils. “Lamar?”

A deep voice rumbles from the kitchen. “C’mon in.”

I take Bean off her leash to go sniff around the yard, knowing Mom will keep an eye on her, and step inside, inhaling deeply. Lamar, his waist wrapped in an apron, stirs an enormous pot on the cooktop. Inside, the thick, bubbling stew is a lovely fiery color. Bits of shredded chicken, shrimp, and vegetables like celery, onion, and peppers breach the surface as he stirs. I hug my stepfather, relishing his bear-like embrace. He’s always given the greatest hugs.

“Hello there, co-conspirator,” he says.

“Mmm,” Logan breathes in appreciatively. He peeks in the pot, too. “What is this deliciousness?”

I turn to him, grinning. “Traditional gumbo, straight from Grandma Celia’s kitchen. Secret ingredients and all. And I made it.”

Logan freezes for a second, then smiles. “Number eight on the bucket list: check.”

“Yep. With some help.” I squeeze Lamar’s side before letting him go.

“She did all the hard work.” He pats my back. “Made the roux, chopped, measured, stirred, and mixed.”

Logan smirks. “And . . . is it edible?”

My stepfather glowers at him. “Of course it’s edible. No inedible food is prepared in this kitchen, son.”

They’re both joking. Well, not Lamar so much. But definitely Logan. My friend hugs my stepfather after I let him go. Logan’s about six inches taller than Lamar, but they’ve always seemed to see eye to eye, nonetheless.

“Aren’t you proud of her?” Lamar asks him.

“Definitely,” Logan says, but I can read the uncertainty in his eyes, I guess about my cooking skills. I’m a little hurt, but I hide it.

“I promise it’s going to be delicious,” I say. Then, I ask Lamar, “Where do we want to set up?”

“Outside, I thought.”

He reaches up to the cabinets to get plates, which I wait to take from him. Logan heads for the utensil drawer. As I carry the dishes outside, Jazzy barrels into the backyard from the side gate, calling for Bean. My dog looks up from the bush she had her head stuck in and runs to greet my niece. The resulting kid and dog hug is reminiscent of a military homecoming. It’s like they haven’t seen each other in years.

Mom lays her phone down on the side table and stands. “Sorry, everyone. I had some clients who needed to be talked off the ledge about the contract they’re about to sign.”

She hugs me, then Logan, who stepped out of the