flies straight.
“Got it?” I scoot back.
Jazzy’s eyes narrow with determination, and her full lips purse. “Ready.”
Bean runs as Jazzy curls her arm and throws. The frisbee goes twice as far this time. It lands in the grass, but Bean quickly circles back and scoops it up when Jazzy tells her to. We all clap.
“Well done, Jazz,” Dean says. “And Stevie, it’s amazing that Bean already gets the gist of this.”
I grin, proud of her. When Jazzy lines up to throw for Bean again, I stay with her to help correct her wind up and throw. Behind us, the conversation at the table turns to other things. After a couple more tosses, I hear my name.
“Thirty,” Mom says. “I really can’t believe it. How’s it going with the list?” I can tell she’s lowering her voice intentionally, but it doesn’t quite work. Although my mother is a lot of things, quiet isn’t one of them.
Hot blood creeps up my neck and burns my ears. Why does my family ask Logan things about me? We’re close, but why would he know more about my life than I do? Then again, maybe he does. Maybe I should keep listening and learn something about myself.
“And you,” Mom says, “I can’t believe you’re already thirty. It seems like yesterday that you were peeing in the corner of our backyard because you didn’t want to stop playing and come inside to use the bathroom.”
Everyone laughs, including me, although I smother it.
Then Logan says, “I’m having trouble believing I’m thirty and still solidly single.”
Mom makes an mmm noise of understanding. “That can be remedied, Logan Stephens.”
The conversation moves on, but I chew on what I’d heard. Logan sounded unhappy about being single. Like he’s lonely.
And who can blame him, living with me? He probably feels like he’s sharing a house with a disorganized vampire or something. I work all night and sleep during the day, I’m a terrible housekeeper, I’m pretty moody, and my dental hygiene definitely needs work. Logan deserves a loving, kind, smart, beautiful, organized, mature woman.
A woman like—
And that’s when I have my best idea yet. I’d thought joining the Denver Disc Dogs would only check item number seven off my list. Now? I’m gunning for number one.
I want to change someone’s life for the better, and I’m determined that someone will be Logan. And I know exactly who can help me do it.
Emmy.
Chapter Eight
Logan
“Bean, don’t even think about it,” Stevie says in a warning voice.
I glance over the top of my iPad at the dog. Bean hunches and wags the tip of her tail, looking guilty.
“She was trying to scratch around the pavers,” Stevie tells me.
We’re sitting at our round metal patio table the morning after the gumbo feast, drinking coffee and reading in the shade of the faded and half-broken umbrella over our heads. Well, I’m reading. Stevie is sketching, one of her favorite hobbies.
Ever since we were kids, she’d doodled in notebooks, on scraps of paper, and sometimes on me. I had to throw out a favorite pair of jeans in high school when she’d doodled on my leg.
After Bean got to Rosa’s chickens the other night, we’d stuffed several pavers into the hole in the fence. Now Bean’s trying to finagle a way around it. The hens next door squawk softly, a constant temptation. From Bean’s point of view, they’re in constant danger of wandering off and getting lost.
“Moe needs to actually fix the fence,” I say referring to our landlord. “Along with the hall closet door, the water damage in the ceiling in my room, and the floor gouge in the living room.”
She groans. “Maybe we should move out.”
“Or . . . maybe we should buy a house.”
I keep my voice casual and wait for a response, still pretending to read. Stevie keeps her eyes on Bean, who’s moved on to sniffing other likely spots in the fence.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “We can’t even keep up with this place.”
My heart, which had started to beat a little faster when she didn’t immediately shoot my idea down, sags in my chest.
My friend and unintentional tormentress looks casually beautiful this morning. She’s still wearing her pajamas—a pair of worn flannel pants and a T-shirt—and her hair is a wild pile on top of her head. But the sun gleams off the blonde strands, and her blue eyes glint when she has a new idea as she draws, and her mouth twitches while she tries to recreate whatever image is