None of that is for me to share, though. “She’s doing okay. We’ve been working together on the A-frame, you know, in exchange for her helping me with this Arthur stuff,” I tell him, trying to shift the conversation.
He takes the bait. “How’s that going? Mary said you’re hoping to buy the practice?”
“Yeah, I’d love to buy it with Garrett. Both of us run the place.” I shrug. “But Arthur is hesitant to include me. He doesn’t think I’ll be sticking around here long enough.”
“But you will?”
I nod. “I’m staying. Being away made me realize—this is home.” I hold up the next board. “I just have to show Arthur this is my dream.”
Dave screws another board into place, then pauses. “You have a gift with animals, Theo. They trust you. They know you’re one of the good ones. If you need anything from me to help prove that to Arthur, I’m here. Whatever it is.”
Animals have always been a source of comfort for me, but my father hated the idea of having a pet. He had every excuse in the book—they’re dirty, loud, annoying—and we were never allowed to have one. But I would befriend every animal I met, desperate to fill that space in my heart that wanted one.
Then, on a random Thursday evening—after the divorce was final and we’d moved into our new house—Mom showed up witha dog. She’d found him behind the dumpster at the elementary school. He was sad, untrusting, hurt in ways we couldn’t see—so similar to how I felt at the time, and I had an instantaneous connection to him.
I like to think we healed each other in little ways for years. Chance was there to hug when I needed him in the middle of the night. He showed me that despite the fights I was getting into, I knew how to be gentle. He taught me that I could do this one thing—take care of him. And that became enough.
The job at the clinic is the one place I trust myself, and maybe that’s why Arthur’s doubt hurts so much. It feels like he’s stripping away the one real thing I let myself have, and that means I’m going to dig my nails in and grip onto it with everything I’ve got.
I take a steadying breath and nod. “Thank you.”
As I walk up the steps to the A-frame, I spot Fable through the glass. She’s cross-legged on her couch, with a mug of tea in one hand, and scrolling through something on her computer with the other.
I turn the knob and... it’s locked.Good girl.
She gives me a sassy little grin before snapping her laptop shut and carrying it to the kitchen counter. Taking her sweet time, she shuffles to the door and eyes me through the window, the mug tucked between her hands. She’s wearing a form-fitting white shirt, light-wash jean overalls, and fuzzy socks. Looking cozy and warm. Ihave the overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her and breathe her in.
“Good job locking the door,” I call as Layla jumps up, her one front paw balanced on the glass.
Her brows arch. “Learned my lesson last time.”
Oh shit.Does that mean—? The memory of her with that toy between her thighs burns behind my eyes again. Something hot and achy shoots through me, and my heart speeds up. She can probably hear it through the window.
Her eyes go wide, and she whips the door open. “Oh mygod, Theo. Iwas taking ashower! Stop looking like”—she waves a hand vaguely in front of me—“that!”
Layla zips in the door and I hear a distant screech from Knocks. Apparently, their temporary truce from when they slept curled up together on the couch with me has ended.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “What am I looking like?”
She leans on the doorframe and narrows her eyes over the rim of her mug. Sunlight reflects off the gold hoop in her nose and brightens the strands of damp hair around her face.
“Like you were thinking about last night,” she says matter-of-factly. “Which can’t happen. We need to pretend those few minutes didn’t exist. Okay?”
Ah, so I’m supposed to completely forget it wasmyname she moaned while she was getting herself off? Fuck if that’s ever going to happen. Those two breathy, desperate syllables will be burned into my brain for the rest of my life.
“It’s totally normal. Everyone does it. We’re moving on,” she announces with finality. But I can see the pink painted beneath her freckles. The way she’s chewing at her bottom lip and avoiding eye contact.
“Right.” My voice is gravelly. “Doesn’t matter at all.”
“Nope.”
“Never think about it again.”
“Easy.” She takes a sip of tea, still not looking at me.
“We’ll be very chill about it.”
“Arctic tundra chill.”
