"There's no bonus. There's no pilot. There's a professional opportunity that I'm considering on its professional merits."
"Sure." Carla takes another sip of coffee. "And I'm going to ace organic chemistry."
I take my latte to the worn leather armchair in the corner—my usual spot, away from the windows and the door and the eyes of the entire town—and pull out my phone.
The email is sitting in my inbox, right where Sophie said it would be. Official county seal. Professional language. A detailed description of the kennel upgrade project and a request for veterinary consultation on everything from ventilation systems to enrichment protocols.
It's exactly the kind of work I love. Complex, challenging, the intersection of animal welfare and practical design. The kind of project I dreamed about when I was slogging through vet school, telling myself all the sleepless nights would be worth it.
And it's on base.
Where he is.
He's cocky, I remind myself.Probably flirts with everyone. Probably forgot about me the second he walked out the door.
Except Maggie said he couldn't stop talking about me. And he showed up at my clinic after chasing his dog six blocks through downtown, out of breath and rumpled and genuinely embarrassed about his ridiculous call sign.
Bingo.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
He didn't act like someone who flirts with everyone. He acted like someone who was caught off guard. Someone who didn't know what to do with a woman who didn't immediately fall for his charm.
I'm not most people, I'd told him.
No. I don't think you are.The memory of his voice—quiet, almost surprised—sends heat crawling up my neck.
This is ridiculous. I'm a thirty-year-old professional with a thriving practice and a perfectly good life. I don't get flustered over men I've met once. I don't let blue-gray eyes and dimples derail my carefully constructed equilibrium.
I built this life on purpose. Pine Valley is safe. Predictable. Mine.
And Dean Mercer, with his ridiculous call sign and beautiful eyes, is threatening all of it.
I stare at the email.
The consultation is three meetings minimum, probably more. On-site assessments. Review sessions. Plenty of opportunities to run into Air Force personnel.
Plenty of opportunities to run into him.
And plenty of opportunities to prove to myself—and to Sophie, and to Carla, and to the entire gossiping population of Pine Valley—that I'm completely unaffected. That I can walk onto that base and do my job without my stupid heart doing stupid things.
That's the mature, professional approach. Take the job. Do excellent work. Ignore any pilots who happen to cross my path.
My thumb hovers over the reply button.
Sophie reappears with an armful of picture books and a smile that says she knows exactly what I'm doing. "Well?"
"I'm thinking."
"Think faster. The suspense is killing me."
"You're very invested in my career decisions."
"I'm invested in your happiness." She dumps the books on the counter for Carla to ring up. "Also, in gossip. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
The woman with the toddler approaches the register, and Sophie shifts into customer service mode—bright smile, easy chatter about age-appropriate reading levels and the upcoming story hour.
I watch her work, this woman who gave up a corporate job in Denver to run a bookstore in a town most people have never heard of. Who built her own life on her own terms and never once apologized for wanting something different.
