#Chapter83
The thin path led to a driveway, which birthed a large, old-fashioned kind of house. Behind it, a large stable block was just about visible. A mutt that was almost identical to Milo was lounging on the porch swing. Being the shitty guard dog it was, it didn't even look up as we approached, snoozing on.
I had expected Blake to throw me into the shit jobs first but he led me through to the kitchen of the farmhouse. The inside looked like it was a spitback from the '80s, but something about it seemed so warm and cosy. Blake lifted the hat off his head, dumping it on the scuffed, square table that squished into the space behind the kitchen counter, and pulled two cups from the hanging rack and helped himself to a jug of lemonade from the fridge. Rather than pour it, he brought over the lot.
He rolled up the sleeves to his plaid shirt, the red of it going well with his sun-kissed skin, before fixing me with a kind expression.
