Dean
Ivolunteered for escort duty the second I heard "veterinary consultant."
Javi called me pathetic. He's not wrong.
The base gate is quiet this morning, just the usual hum of activity as personnel come and go. I'm leaning against my truck trying to look casual, like I happen to be here for completely legitimate reasons and not because I've been thinking about green eyes and a sharp tongue for three days straight.
PFC Elijah Brooks is on guard duty, baby-faced and eager as a golden retriever puppy. He keeps glancing over at me with the kind of poorly concealed curiosity that tells me the entire base already knows why I'm here.
"Heard you're showing around the pretty vet, sir," he finally says, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Word travels fast."
"It's a small base, sir." Brooks grins, all nineteen-year-old enthusiasm. "Plus, Captain Mendoza told everyone at chow this morning. Said you've been—and I quote—'a lovesick disaster since Tuesday.'"
I'm going to kill Javi. Slowly.
"Captain Mendoza exaggerates."
"He also said you took the long way home past her clinic. Twice."
"That's a completely normal route."
"It's six blocks out of your way, sir."
"I like the scenery."
Brooks’ grin widens. He opens his mouth—probably to deliver another piece of intel from the Javi Mendoza Gossip Network—but a silver Honda pulls up to the checkpoint, and his attention snaps to professional mode.
Callie.
She's got her window down, handing over her ID with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. Practical clothes—dark jeans, a fitted jacket over what looks like a clinic polo. Hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than she did in the exam room. Clipboard on the passenger seat. Zero makeup that I can see, and she doesn't need it.
Brooks processes her credentials with painful thoroughness, asking questions he definitely doesn't need to ask just to keep her at the gate longer. I'm about to intervene when she catches sight of me.
Her expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of recognition, not a hint of warmth.
Cold as a Colorado January.
This is going to be fun.
"Dr. O'Connor." I push off my truck and walk over to the golf cart as she pulls through the gate. "Welcome to Ridgeway."
"Captain Mercer." She steps out of her car, clipboard already in hand. "I wasn't aware pilots doubled as tour guides."
"Special circumstances."
"And what circumstances would those be?"
"My family's in the K9 business. Command thought I might have useful input."
It's not entirely a lie. Top did suggest I attend the consultation. He just didn't suggest I volunteer to personally escort the consultant around base like some kind of uniformed chauffeur.
Callie's eyes narrow slightly, like she's filing that information away for later analysis. "Iron Creek K9. Texas."
"You've heard of it?"
"I did my research." She tucks her pen behind her ear—a gesture so casually competent it does unreasonable things to my pulse. "Your father founded it. Your brothers run it now. They've contracted with military and law enforcement agencies across the Southwest."
