Did it matter? She had just spent nearly four thousand dollars getting that salivary gland surgically removed. Was she going to allow her dog to die of an infection because it would cost an extra two hundred?
Bryson took a mental step back. Who in the hell was he to pass judgment? Maybe she didn’t have an extra two hundred dollars. Maybe she had scraped together every cent she had for the surgery. He knew better than most what it was like to have to make tough financial choices. He’d spent the better part of his life doing it.
He took Mrs. Stewart’s hand in his. “I know it’s hard not to stress about the cost, but please don’t. The receptionist can tell you about programs that will allow you to pay in installments so that you don’t have to cover everything all at once.”
The worry marring her features lessened. “Thank you again for all you did for my little Jack.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before slipping past him and walking over to the reception area.
Bryson turned to Evie, who had crept a few feet closer to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She disregarded his question and nodded toward Mrs. Stewart. “That couldn’t have been easy. I’ve seen too many people have to make the hard choice of providing care or saying goodbye to their pet because they can’t afford the expense. I’m glad you encouraged her to save her dog.”
“I didn’t really give her any other option,” Bryson said. “It’s a habit I’m trying to break, if I’m being honest. The choice isn’t mine. Sometimes, saving the animal isn’t what’s best for it or for the owner. But Captain Jack still has a few years left in him, and I have a feeling he’s her only companion. She needs that dog as much as the dog needs her.”
The corner of Evie’s mouth curved up in a crooked half-smile and his skin grew hot. Shit.
“Why am I not surprised that you turned out to be this kind of vet,” she said.
Bryson cleared his throat. “What kind of vet is that?”
“The kind who approaches patient care with both the owner and the pet’s well-being in mind.”
He shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”
“Not every doctor sees it that way,” she said. “But of course you do. Like I said, I’m not surprised at all.”
Bryson tried to dismiss the way his pulse amped up as they stood in the reception area. He should at least try to get a handle on his body’s reaction to her.
“Um, what are you doing here, Ev? I thought I was supposed to call you back?”
“I just dropped Waffles off at doggy daycare—I want him to socialize for at least a few hours each day—so I decided to drive over. It would be better to discuss this face-to-face.” She glanced around the reception area and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Someplace a bit more private?”
His mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Mojave.
He was a grown man. He could handle this.
“Sure,” Bryson said. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Even though Evie walked at least three feet behind him, Bryson could feel her nearness on his skin. It pressed against him like a physical weight—a reminder that she was within touching distance. It had been well over a week since he’d returned to Louisiana and he still had not fully grasped the fact that he was close enough to Evie Williams to touch her.
It defied comprehension that she could still have this kind of effect on him after all this time. It wasn’t as if he’d spent the past eight years pining for her. Maybe that first year—he could admit to obsessing over what he’d walked away from and the relationship they could have had if he’d stayed and fought for her. But he had gotten over Evie. He had made sure of it.
He’d dated more than his share of women, both casual and serious relationships. He had come close to getting engaged. Hell, he had nearly become a father. If not for anearly pregnancy miscarriage, there would be a little Bryson Junior running around.
Yet, of all the women he’d dated since the last time he saw Evie, none had made his heart bounce against his rib cage the way it did at this moment.
Maybe when he had more time he could find a quiet place to sit and contemplate just what in the hell it was about Evie that had caught hold of him and would not let him go, even after all these years.
They reached his office and Bryson motioned for her to go in ahead of him. She entered and began a slow perusal, examining the Andy Warhol–inspired portraits of Bella he’d hung on the walls, along with his framed degrees. They were copies. The originals hung in their place of honor at his parents’ house in Houma, ninety minutes southwest of New Orleans.
Evie slowly turned, her attention traveling from the ultramodern adjustable standing desk to the equally modern light fixtures above.
“So, this is how the specialties live,” she said, a trace of envy coloring her voice. “Must be nice.”
Was she actually going there?
