was out of options. His thumb hovered over the little phone icon.
But he hesitated. And then Dog’s stomach growled.
Max put his phone down, her contact information still on his screen. “Come on, buddy, let’s eat something,” he said.
Dog responded by laying his head down between his paws.
Max sighed. He got up and went into the kitchen. He poured some kibble into a bowl, then opened the fridge, pulled out some leftover mac and cheese he and Jamie had made one night, and heaped a big helping of it on the dog food.
He called the dog, but he would not come off that couch. Max absently scratched his head, wondering how he would get the dog into the kitchen to eat, when he was startled by someone knocking on his door. Not knocking, exactly, but slapping it. Like someone was slapping the palm of their hand against the door. It was a strange way to knock.
Dog lifted his head. His ears perked in that direction. But then he turned back to Dog TV.
The person slapped his door again.
No one knocked like that unless maybe they were drunk or high, and . . . Brant! That bastard, it had to be him. That dumbass had come out of his fog and had come to get this dog and give Hazel back. Max walked into the living room, set the bowl of food down on the floor near the couch, and strode to the door, all dialed up to give Brant a good what for.
Three
Max jerked the door open and prepared to launch . . . but it wasn’t Brant standing on the other side with Hazel. It was a woman. And she didn’t have a dog.
The woman was quite attractive, which knocked him off-balance for a beat too long, because attractive women did not frequently appear at his door. As in never. He had to think a minute—his brain needed to posit some theories to him about why this woman might be standing at his door. Unfortunately, Max couldn’t think very well because he was completely distracted by the black hair that hung in a silky sheet down her chest and back. And unusually blue eyes, big and thickly lashed, beneath a perfect line of dark bangs. Her face was a lovely oval shape, and her dark brows were arched very expressively—she was as surprised as he was. But the thing that really stood out to him, that really tied his thoughts up in a knot, was what she was wearing.
What was she wearing? He’d never seen anything like it. Was it a dress? Pants? The garment had oversized shoulders and sleeves too long for her arms. Her pant legs were so wide that they looked like some futuristic antebellum gown. He couldn’t see her hands and, in fact, she had to push a sleeve back to reach into her tote bag.
“What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen high fashion before?”
“What?” If that was high fashion, he had some questions.
She yanked her hand free of her bag. She was clutching a piece of paper.
Was it a costume, maybe? Maybe one of those singing telegrams? Once, Dr. Fridlington, a professor in his department, had received a singing telegram. But that costume had been a poop emoji. Turned out, the telegram was from his wife, and the singing telegram was to inform him that she was divorcing him. This was clearly not that. But what was it?
She looked up from the paper. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Tobias Sheffington?”
No one called him by his first name but his late grandfather. And his grandfather had never called him Tobias in such an accusatory tone. Max’s distraction suddenly turned in a completely different direction, one in which his amygdala started firing limbic neurons filled with consternation. Was she about to accuse him of something?
“Tobias Sheffington?” she repeated, a little louder, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“No. I mean, yes, that is my name. But I go by Max. Max Sheffington.”
Her eyes flicked the length of him. “Your name is Tobias and you go by Max? Okay,” she said, as if she thought he was trying to pull a fast one on her.
He was not. Tobias was so damn stuffy that he went by Max. “It’s my middle name. Okay?” he repeated uncertainly. Was she a former student? Surely he wouldn’t forget that he’d taught a woman who looked like her. Not to mention he’d never done anything to a former student to warrant any sort of accusation