“Including the therapy these dogs are going to need?”
“Dogs need therapy?”
“After this? Probably.”
Hell, I know I do.
Dr. Meyer appears from the back, looking at the destruction with the resignation of someone who long ago gave up having normal days. “Let me guess. Rita?”
“Rita,” I confirm. “In her defense, the treat jars were asking for it. Sitting there all smug and full of irresistible goodies.”
He points over his shoulder. “Exam room three. Let’s get this over with before she discovers the surgical supplies and decides to perform unauthorized operations.”
I snicker, then abruptly stop when I see the vet’s not actually amused.
Before we get to the exam room, Dr. Meyer gestures at a crate in the hallway. “We just got this stuff delivered and they just left it here. McCoy, help me move this thing.”
Wyatt moves to one end, and Dr. Meyer looks at me. “Thompson, steady the middle while we shift it. Unless you want to wait out here with the roosters.”
So now I’m sandwiched between Wyatt and the vet, trying not to notice how Wyatt’s arms flex as we lift, how his shirt pulls tight across his chest, how he smells like hay and soap and that uniquely Wyatt scent that makes me want to climb him like a tree. He catches my eye and winks, the bastard, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Which he probably does because my poker face game is really pathetic.
“On three,” Dr. Meyer says, oblivious to my internal crisis.
We move the crate, but not before Rita decides to help by wrapping her lead around our legs, creating a weird veterinary group hug that would be funny if it weren’t embarrassing.
“Your goat’s trying to kill us,” Wyatt murmurs, his breath warm against my ear in a way that makes me shiver.
“Or bring us closer together,” I counter, then immediately want to eat those words because they sound way too relationship-y and feeling-y and other things ending in Y that I’m not ready to deal with.
But Wyatt grins and steps closer, his hand squeezingmine before we untangle ourselves. “I’m okay with either option.”
The exam is quick, thanks to Dr. Meyer. Rita’s fine, the gum and wrappers will pass, and that’ll be three hundred dollars please. The usual Tuesday afternoon goat-related robbery.
I emerge to find the brothers waiting by the door, trying to look casual and failing. They look like kids waiting to ask if their friend can come out to play.
“So,” Jesse says with that grin that promises trouble, “we’re having steaks tonight. You should come.”
“All of us,” Boone adds quickly. “Together. At the same place. Eating meat. Like humans do.”
“That’s usually how dinner works,” I say. “Unless you’ve been doing it wrong this whole time.”
“Seven o’clock?” Wyatt asks, and there’s something hopeful in his expression that makes my chest do that tight thing again.
“Yeah, okay. But Rita stays home. She’s had enough adventure for one day, and I can’t afford another vet visit this month.”
As I’m loading Rita into my truck, she goes willingly, probably exhausted from her reign of terror, I catch them doing that thing where they silently communicate with looks. Jesse raises an eyebrow, Boone nods, and Wyatt... Wyatt’s watching me with an intensity that makes me very aware of my heartbeat.
This is good. We’re good. Everything’s good.
So why do I have this weird feeling in my stomach like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall?
I get hometo find Dad’s truck in the driveway, which is weird because he said he’d be in town until late filing something or other with the county. It’s only four p.m., and Hank Thompson has never left paperwork unfinished in his life. The man treats documentation like a religious calling. He once stayed up until two a.m. to properly file fence repair receipts from 1987.
Inside, he’s in the kitchen making coffee. Something’s... different. His shirt’s tucked in properly for once, not the half-assed job he usually does where one side’s in and the other’s flapping in the wind. His hair looks like it’s seen an actual comb instead of just fingers. And is that... cologne? My father is wearing actual cologne?
“You’re home early,” I say, unleashing Rita into the backyard.
“Finished up quicker than expected.” He doesn’t look at me, which is suspicious. Dad’s got three modes of eye contact: angry eye contact (most common), disappointed eye contact (runner-up), and what he thinks is friendly eye contact but actually looks like he’s trying to set things on fire with his mind (rare but memorable).
