A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

His shoulders are slumped again, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows as one of his big hands slowly strokes Doris’s back. I can still read the sadness in the uncharacteristic stillness of a man who usually possesses border-collie-energy mixed with golden-retriever-happiness. I think of Beth’s challenge to talk to him about something besides dogs, and I have a little argument with myself. Talk to him! No, thanks. Just ask if he’s okay. He’s fine. He’s not fine! Look at him! Yes, he is fine. Fiiiine. Not THAT kind of fine. Eli sighs, as if to prove the mouthy part of my subconscious correct. He might be fine-looking. But he is not fine inside. Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Is everything okay? You seem a little down today.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper, but Eli’s head snaps up like I shouted. I grit my teeth and force myself to hold his gaze. No sense being a coward now. He offers up a lopsided smile, but his eyes are still sad. “That obvious, huh?” I offer him a shaky smile. Shaky because adrenaline is surging through me. Sad what a tiny bit of bravery can take out of me. “You’re flying at half-mast,” I tell him, then hope it wasn’t a terrible thing to say. But Eli chuckles, looking somehow pleased. Maybe that I’m talking to him like this? Hopefully he hasn’t noticed the lopsided way our conversations have always gone. But how could he not have? He’s always the one talking, and I’m always the one answering. I feel anxiety trying to take me dow...