"She's not going to make it easy."
"I know that too."
He's quiet for a moment, watching the empty road. "She's sharp. Knows her stuff. Actually gives a damn about the dogs."
"Yeah."
"Ranger likes her."
"Ranger likes everyone."
"Ranger likes treats and tennis balls. He doesn't run across a training yard for just anyone." Dev claps me on the shoulder, a rare gesture from a man who guards physical contact like state secrets. "Good luck, Bingo."
He walks away before I can respond.
I stand at the gate for another minute, replaying the conversation, the tour, the moment she laughed at my stupid joke about beer cans.
The dog-loving, sharp-tongued, won't-give-me-an-inch vet has gotten completely under my skin.
Ranger whines from somewhere behind me, and I know exactly how he feels.
Chapter 5
Callie
Three days after the base tour, three different people have asked me about "that handsome pilot" before noon, and I'm seriously considering moving to a town where nobody talks to each other.
"So," Mrs. Patterson says, settling her ancient tabby on my exam table with the casual air of someone who definitely made this appointment just to fish for gossip. "I hear you've been spending time on base."
"I'm consulting on a kennel project." I keep my voice professionally neutral while I check Whiskers—not Mr. Whiskers, a different Whiskers, because apparently this town has a catastrophic lack of imagination when it comes to cat names. "It's work-related."
"Mmhm." Mrs. Patterson adjusts her glasses, which are thick enough to see the moon. "And the pilot? The handsome one who chased his dog through town?"
"What about him?"
"Jet says he's been asking about you at the Rusty Spur. Sophie says he walked past your clinic twice on Tuesday night. And Maggie says?—"
"Maggie says a lot of things." I press the stethoscope to Whiskers’ chest, hoping the universal signal for I'm busy being a doctor will end this conversation.
It doesn't.
"She says he couldn't stop talking about you." Mrs. Patterson leans forward conspiratorially. "Said he had that look. You know the one."
"I don't know the one."
"The look men get when they've been hit by lightning. My Harold had it the first time he saw me at the church social in 1962." She sighs dreamily. "Couldn't string two words together for a week."
"Captain Mercer seems perfectly capable of stringing words together. Too many of them, actually."
"Oh, so it's Captain Mercer now?" Mrs. Patterson's smile could power a small city. "First-name basis already. That's fast."
"That's his rank. It's the opposite of first-name basis."
"You know his first name, though."
"Everyone in this town knows his first name. You all won't stop talking about him."
"Because he's handsome." She pats my arm with the condescending affection of a woman who's been married for sixty years and thinks everyone else's life would be vastly improved by following her example. "And single. And he has that dog. Women love a man with a dog."
