She's working with a horse—a big bay gelding that's favoring his front left leg.
Her vet tech assistant, Kyle, is holding the lead rope while Grace examines the hoof.
I stop in the doorway and just watch.
She's wearing jeans and boots, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
A tank top that shows off her curves and tanned arms tanned from ranch work.
And around her neck, despite the heat, a thin scarf.
Hiding my marks.
The possessive satisfaction that rolls through me is almost painful.
"Easy, boy," Grace murmurs to the horse, running her hands down his leg. "Let me see what's going on here."
Kyle says something I can't hear, and Grace laughs.
The sound punches through me, sweet and genuine, and I want to hear it again.
Want to be the one making her laugh.
Want to remind her who made her scream last night.
I step into the barn, my boots loud on the concrete.
Grace looks up, and I watch her eyes widen slightly.
Her cheeks flush. She remembers.
Good.
"Shadow," she says, her voice just a little breathless. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on things." I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Got a minute?"
Kyle glances between us, clearly picking up on something but smart enough not to comment.
Grace straightens, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Kyle, can you finish up here? Just wrap the hoof and put him in the recovery stall."
"Sure thing, Dr. Dalton."
She walks toward me, and I track every step.
The way she moves, the subtle stiffness that says she's sore.
The way she won't quite meet my eyes.
"My office," she says quietly as she passes me.
I follow, my eyes dropping to the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those jeans.
Tonight can't come fast enough.
Grace's office is small but organized—desk covered in paperwork, shelves lined with veterinary textbooks and supplies, a few framed photos of her with horses and cattle, and of course a photo right on her desk of her and Charlie.
She closes the door behind me, and I immediately reach for her.
