She's out the door before I can respond.
I eat my pie in silence, letting Maggie's words settle uncomfortably in my chest. Lonely. It's not a word I would have associated with Dean Mercer; with his easy grin and quick jokes and the way he fills up every room he walks into.
But I think about the way Ranger leaned against his leg in my clinic. The way his smile faltered when I mentioned his family'sbusiness. The way he lingered at my door like he was hoping for an excuse to stay.
Maybe loneliness doesn't always look like what we expect.
I pay my tab—Maggie refuses to charge me for the pie—and head back to the clinic with a takeout container of the soup I actually came for.
The afternoon is blessedly quiet. A dog with an ear infection. A hamster that turns out to be pregnant. A rabbit that bit its owner and now the owner is more traumatized than the rabbit. Normal, manageable, blissfully free of questions about handsome pilots.
And then, at three-thirty, the bell over the door chimes.
I'm in the back, finishing up notes, when Linda pokes her head in. Her expression is carefully neutral, which means she's working very hard not to smile.
"You have a visitor."
"Is it Mrs. Patterson with another 'emergency'?"
"Not exactly."
I follow her to the front, already composing polite ways to tell whoever it is that I'm very busy and can't possibly?—
Dean Mercer is standing in my waiting room, holding two cups of coffee.
He's out of uniform—jeans, a soft gray henley that does absolutely nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders, boots that look like they've actually been worn and not just purchased for aesthetic purposes. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently, and the late afternoon light catches his eyes.
"Hey," he says, holding out one of the cups. "Peace offering."
"For what?"
"Being annoying. Apparently I'm very annoying." His expression is hopeful, almost uncertain. "Also, I had some follow-up questions about the kennel specs, and I figured you might need caffeine."
I take the cup because my hands need something to do. The label reads Timberline Espresso. The handwriting on the side says oat milk, one pump vanilla latte.
"How did you know how I take my coffee?"
"You mentioned it to Dev. During the tour." He shrugs like it's nothing.
I mentioned that once. In passing. While being mildly irritated with him.
He remembered.
"Your follow-up questions," I say, because I need to say something and ‘thank you for remembering my coffee order you thoughtful bastard’ seems inappropriate. "What are they?"
"Right. Yes. Questions." He pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen. "Dev wanted to know about... enrichment protocol timelines. For the new equipment."
"That could have been an email."
"Could have been." He grins. "But then I wouldn't have had an excuse to bring you coffee."
Linda makes a sound behind me that she tries to disguise as a cough. I ignore her.
"I have paperwork to finish."
"I'll wait."
"That's not—you don't need to?—"
