"I can't tell you what she needs," I say. "I'd have to ask her. That's kind of the whole problem."
"Then ask her."
I slump back in the booth. "She's not speaking to me."
"So?" Jake's voice sharpens with the particular brand of younger-brother impatience I've been hearing my whole life. "Make her speak to you. Apologize. Grovel. Do whatever it takes. And this time, actually ask her what she wants instead of presenting her with your plan."
"When did you get so smart about relationships?"
"I'm not. I just know you're an idiot when you assume things." He pauses. "But Dean? If you're doing this—if you're really asking her to build something with you—make sure you mean it. Don't offer her a partnership and then expect her to follow your lead. You know? Actual partnership, where you both get a say."
"I know."
"Do you?" The question is gentle but pointed. "Because Wade and I have been running Iron Creek our way for a while now. If you come back, you're going to want to do things differently. And if you bring Callie, she's going to want her own practice, her own way of doing things. Can you handle that? Can we?"
I think about Callie in the base kennel, questioning everything, pushing back on assumptions, making Dev rethink his entire approach to enrichment protocols.
I think about her in exam room one with Ranger, commanding and confident and completely in control.
I think about her telling me she built her practice herself, chose Pine Valley herself, made a life herself.
"Yeah," I say. "I can handle that. Can you?"
Jake laughs again. "Guess we'll find out. Talk to her, Dean. Figure out what she wants. Then call me back and we'll make it work."
He hangs up.
I sit in the booth for another few minutes, phone in hand, coffee long cold.
Maggie swings by with the pot. "Refill?"
"No thanks." I slide out of the booth, dropping cash on the table. "I need to go figure out how to grovel."
"Good." She pockets the cash. "And Flyboy? When you talk to her—actually listen. Don't just wait for your turn to talk."
"Yes, ma'am."
Outside, the sun is setting over Pine Valley, painting the Rockies in shades of orange and pink. Somewhere in this town, Callie is probably sitting on her porch with Biscuit, hating me.
I don't blame her.
But I'm not done fighting for this. For us.
Tomorrow, I'll talk to her. Figure out what we're actually building—together.
Tonight, I need to figure out what the hell I'm asking for.
And make sure the answer includes her, not just the idea of her.
Chapter 11
Callie
Afew days of perfectly normal veterinary work. Normal days of professional competence, pleasant small talk with clients, and absolutely no thinking about blue-gray eyes or stupid call signs.
My sheets still smell like him. I've washed them twice.
I'm fine.
