I glance at the clock. It's past five. The clinic's been closed for twenty minutes and I didn't even notice.
"Some of us have actual work, Bingo."
He winces at the name—reflexive, immediate—and something in my chest softens against my will.
"Some of us have already done actual work," he counters. "And are now relaxing in the company of a beautiful veterinarian who pretends to hate my call sign but secretly thinks it's charming."
"I don't think it's charming."
"Your eye's not twitching, so you might be telling the truth." He stands, stretching in a way that pulls his henley tight across his chest. Not that I notice. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Absolutely not."
"Day after?"
"No."
"I'll text you."
"You don't have my number."
"I have Dev's number, and Dev has your professional contact info from the consultation paperwork. I'm resourceful." He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "Thanks for letting me stay."
"I didn't let you. You refused to leave."
"Semantics." He winks. "Night, Doc."
The bell chimes behind him, and then he's gone.
I sit at my desk for a long moment, listening to the silence, replaying the conversation. The way he remembered my coffee order. The way he asked about my work like it mattered. The way his mask dropped when he talked about his future.
Lonely, Maggie said. Don't let the smile fool you.
I lock up the clinic and step out into the evening air, the mountains glowing pink and gold in the sunset.
I'm smiling.
I blame the coffee.
Chapter 6
Dean
Saturday afternoon, almost a week after Ranger’s clinic invasion, the text I wrote took me three drafts. The first was too casual. The second was too formal. The third was just right—or at least that's what I told myself as I hit send and immediately wanted to throw my phone into the sun.
Me: Ranger needs exercise. Clearwater Lake has good trails. Totally professional dog-walking situation. You in?
Her response came twenty minutes later, which was twenty minutes of me staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for prom news.
Callie: For the dog's sake. 4pm.
For the dog's sake. Sure. I'll take it.
Now it's 3:47 and I'm parked at the Clearwater Lake trailhead, watching Callie's silver Honda pull into the lot. Ranger is vibrating in the back seat, nose pressed against the window, tail going like a helicopter rotor.
"Play it cool, man," I tell him. "We're being professional."
He whines. He does not believe me.
