“Relax,” she says. “It’s good to have a crush. God knows you need something to focus on
other than work.”
“Hey,” I exclaim, offended. “I have plenty of things to focus on.”
“Sure, you do. You realize she’s perfect for you, right? Pretty, funny, rescues kittens, and she literally called you hot to your face. That’s like finding a unicorn.”
“I don’t date clients.”
“Since when?”
“Since... always.” Since the divorce. Since I realized I’m married to this job and that’s not fair to anyone else.
“Uh-huh.” Rach gives me a knowing look. “Well, when you’re done lying to yourself, maybe remember that you deserve to be happy too. Novel concept, I know.”
I retreat to my office between appointments, but I can’t focus on charts. All I can think about is hazel eyes and strawberry scent and the way Flick looked holding that kitten like it was precious cargo.
Tomorrow. I’ll see her again tomorrow.
I haven’t looked forward to something this much in years.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of routine appointments. Vaccines, nail trims, a particularly ornery cat who takes offense to having her temperature taken. Normal, predictable, safe.
Nothing like the jolt of electricity I felt when Flick’s fingers brushed mine.
By the time lunch rolls around—or what passes for lunch when you’re booked solid—I’ve checked my phone approximately seventeen times. No text from Flick. Which makes sense. Why would she text? She’s probably busy with her yarn business. Her microscopic business that has her working constantly.
I know the feeling.
“You gonna eat that or perform an autopsy on it?” Rach appears in my office doorway, nodding at the sandwich I’ve been dissecting without realizing it.
“Thinking.”
“About the pretty kitten lady?”
“About tomorrow’s schedule.”
“Liar.” She drops into the chair across from my desk. “You know what your problem is?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“You’re so busy taking care of everyone else, you forgot you’re allowed to want things for yourself.” She leans forward, serious now. “When’s the last time you went on a real date? And coffee with that accountant where you spent the whole time talking about tax deductions doesn’t count.”
I wince. That had been a particularly awful attempt at dating. “I don’t have time?—”
“Bullshit. You make time for what matters. You made time to offer a house call tomorrow, didn’t you?”
“It’s for the kitten,” I say weakly. “She’s hesitant about the kitten, and it needs stuff.”
“Riiight.” She stands. “Your one o’clock is here.”
The afternoon crawls by. By the time I’m locking up the clinic at seven—only an hour late—I’m exhausted. But instead of heading home to my empty house, I find myself driving through downtown, past the yarn shop where Flick works sometimes.
Knit Happens.The lights are on, and through the window I can see someone moving around inside. My foot hovers over the brake. I could stop. Check if it’s her. Make sure Cat settled in okay.
But that would be weird. Stalkerish. I’ll see her tomorrow.
I drive home instead, to my too-big house on Lighthouse Road. The disaster of a garden mocks me as I pull into the driveway. Five years I’ve lived here, and I still haven’t managed to plant anything that survived more than a season. I just don’t have the extra time to maintain it.
