Mrs. Saltonstall waves from the hardware store, five generations of Saltonstall’s Tools & Tackle proud behind her. “Morning, Flick! How’s the yarn business?”
“Good morning! Going well, thanks!” I wave back, pushing the weird Instagram comment out of my mind. This is Pine Island. Everyone pays too much attention to everyone else’sbusiness. It’s probably just someone local who’s shy about introducing themselves in person.
Tom from the coffee shop is setting out his sidewalk sign—Today’s Special: Existential Dread (Just Kidding, It’s Blueberry Muffins)—and the Murphy twins race past on their bikes, definitely going to be late for school again.
“Hey, Flick!” One of them—I can never tell if it’s Emma or Emily—skids to a stop. “Whatcha got there?”
“A kitten. I just found it.”
“Cool! Can I pet it?”
“Better not. It might be sick.” I hold my jacket closed protectively.
“Mom says we can’t get any more pets since the hamster incident,” the twin says mournfully before racing off after her sister.
I don’t want to know about the hamster incident.
The vet clinic is a converted Victorian house painted an optimistic shade of yellow with a sign out front featuring a cartoon dog and cat who look suspiciously happy about visiting the vet. Through the large front window, I can see movement inside—a lot of movement. Like, more movement than seems normal for eight-thirty in the morning.
My reflection in the glass door makes me cringe. Muddy boots from tromping through the wet grass. Wind-tangled hair escaping from my ponytail in seventeen different directions, puffy eyes from not enough sleep, and a red nose from the chilly wind making me look like Rudolph. I internally cringe and try to pat down a few strands of wayward hair with my free hand.
And now to add to my appearance, there’s definitely kitten pee on the inside of my jacket because I can feel the warmth spreading across my shirt. Before I do anything else, I’ll be changing clothes as soon as I get home.
“Perfect. Just perfect.” But the kitten mews pitifully against my chest, reminding me why I’m here. Taking a deep breath that does nothing to calm my nerves, I open the door and step inside.
The chaos hits me like a wall of sound, smell, and motion. A parrot swoops overhead, squawking what sounds suspiciously like, “TAXATION IS THEFT!”
A Great Dane the size of a small pony strains against his leash, apparently trying to make friends with everyone at once, while his owner tries to stay seated and hold on to him.
In the corner, a woman cradles what I’m pretty sure is an actual fox in a carrier, while twin tabby cats have somehow escaped their carrier and are now racing around the room like furry NASCAR drivers.
“Morning! Welcome to the circus!” The receptionist—a woman with burgundy-streaked hair and a name tag reading ‘Rach’—doesn’t even look up from wrestling with a carrier full of guinea pigs. “Just grab a seat anywhere that’s not occupied by an animal, demon, or combination thereof. Dr. Blum will be right—GERALD, NO!”
A ferret races across the counter, something shiny in its mouth.
“Are those my car keys?” the woman with the fox asks weakly.
“Probably,” Rach sighs. “Third time this week. SEBASTIAN! YOUR ASSISTANT IS COMMITTING GRAND THEFT AUTO AGAIN!”
Before I can process any of this—assistant? the ferret is an assistant?—the door to the back swings open with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
And I forget how to breathe.
A man emerges carrying two rabbits like they’re perfectly normal accessories, one under each arm. The ferret—Gerald, apparently—immediately races up his leg, over his shoulder andsettles around his neck like the world’s most unusual scarf. But it’s not the ferret-wearing or the rabbit-juggling that stops me cold.
It’s the man himself. Damn. Mr. Hottie-Vet is totally droolworthy.
Dark hair that’s slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. Strong jaw with just enough stubble to look rugged rather than unkempt. Blue eyes that seem to take in the entire chaotic scene with a combination of amusement and fond exasperation. He’s wearing scrubs that should make him look medical and professional but instead just emphasize broad shoulders and...
Okay, Flick. Stop ogling the veterinarian.
“Gerald, we’ve talked about this. Stealing is wrong, even if the keys are shiny.” He plucks the keys from the ferret’s mouth and tosses them back to their owner with the kind of casual accuracy that suggests this is a regular occurrence. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Lattimer. He’s got a magpie complex. Last week it was Mr. Paxton’s hearing aid.”
His gaze sweeps the waiting room like a general surveying troops. “Okay, let’s see. Beaumont, stop trying to overthrow the government.” He addresses the parrot, who squawks indignantly. “Titan, all four paws on the floor, buddy.” The Great Dane immediately sits. “And someone please catch the flying Wallendas before they discover the bird cage.”
Two vet techs materialize from the back to wrangle the racing cats while Sebastian—Dr. Blum—deposits the rabbits into a pen that I hadn’t even noticed before. The whole thing takes maybe thirty seconds, and order is more or less restored.
Well, except for my heart rate, which is doing something medically inadvisable.
