Maybe he was right. Maybe normal people don't feel this overwhelming pull toward multiple people at once. MaybeI really am losing my mind, just like he told the doctors, the lawyers, everyone who was supposed to protect me.
The irony makes me laugh a short, bitter sound that bounces off the clinic walls like a gunshot. After two years of being told I was crazy for fighting back, maybe I actually am going crazy now. At least this time it would be on my own terms, in my own way.
The bell above the front door chimes, cutting through the evening quiet, and I look up to see Colt pushing through the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. His hands are occupied by what appears to be a small, very fluffy cloud that's somehow managed to look personally offended by the entire world.
"Oh." He freezes when he sees me still sitting behind the desk, surprise and something that might be guilt flashing across his green eyes. "You're still here."
"Last feeding of the day," I say, standing slowly and trying to ignore the way my pulse picks up just from seeing him. "I didn't think you'd be back until tomorrow morning."
"I wasn't planning to be." His voice is rough, uncertain in a way I've never heard from him before, like he's not sure of his welcome here. "I was just going to drop off Gucci and head back out, but—"
"Gucci?"
He shifts the fluffy bundle carefully, and I realize it's actually a chicken. The most ridiculously adorable chicken I've ever seen, with white silk-like feathers that catch theclinic's fluorescent lights and a tiny face that somehow manages to look both dignified and deeply offended by her current circumstances.
"She's a Silkie," Colt explains, and there's actual color rising in his cheeks. A sight that shouldn't be as endearing as it is.
"Fractured wing. Mrs. Kowalski's prize hen. Needs overnight observation, and she specifically requested the 'fancy animal hospital'."
I fight the smile tugging at my lips, but it's a losing battle. The sight of Colt Mercer, all rough edges and brooding intensity, the man who can wrestle a bull and stitch up a horse without breaking a sweat, holding a chicken named Gucci like she's made of glass is doing things to my heart that I can't afford.
"I'm sorry, but it's hard to take you seriously when you're holding such a fluffy chicken."
"Hey, don't let her hear you call her fluffy. She's got an attitude problem bigger than a prize bull."
But there's relief in his voice, like he was expecting me to shut him out or pretend he didn't exist. "And don't underestimate her. She rules Mrs. Kowalski's coop with an iron beak."
I move closer to examine Gucci's wing, and suddenly I'm in Colt's orbit, close enough that his scent hits me like a physical force. Leather and soap and something that's uniquely him, something that makes my mouth go dry and my hands unsteady.
When I reach out to gently probe the injury, careful not to stress the fractured bone, the air between us seems to thicken with everything we're not saying, everything that happened on those metal stairs outside his apartment.
"Lucy." His voice is lower now, rough with something that might be nerves. "About the other night—"
"You don't need to—"
"I do." He meets my eyes over Gucci's fluffy head, and there's something raw and honest in his green gaze that makes my breath catch in my throat. "I should have apologized before now, but I was too ashamed to face you. What I did, how I acted... you didn't deserve that."
"Colt, really, it's fine—"
"It's not fine." His jaw tightens, and I can see the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "I was drunk and lonely and pathetic, and you were just being kind, trying to help me, for Christ's sake, and I nearly..." He stops, shakes his head like he's disgusted with himself. "I took advantage of your kindness, and that's not who I want to be. Not with you."
The honesty in his voice, the way he's forcing himself to look at me despite the shame clearly eating at him, it's stripping away every defense I've built since that night. This is vulnerability in its rawest form. Beautiful and terrifying and completely unexpected from someone who wears his walls like armor.
And it slices straight through every reason I have for leaving, cuts right to the heart of why staying might be worth the risk.
"Colt—"
The door chimes again, this time with enough force to rattle the frame, and a woman's voice cuts through the charged air like a machete through tall grass. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
I turn to see a woman in her early thirties standing in the doorway like she owns the place, dark hair escaping from what was probably once a neat bun, wearing faded jeans and a red flannel shirt that's seen better days.
She's got striking green eyes and sharp cheekbones, with an expression that's pure Montana mischief and small-town confidence.
"Emma," Colt says, and there's a warning in his voice that could stop a charging bull. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Language," she tsks, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her with deliberate slowness.
"Coming to meet my replacement, of course. The one I've been hearing such wonderful things about from half the county." Her grin is wicked as her eyes bounce between Colt and me. "Not just from clients, mind you, but from my dear brother here, whose praise doesn't come easy and who apparently can't stop talking about his new assistant."
