“No,” I answer patiently. “You’re too important.”
“But you all are no less important to me,” she returns.
“Escúchame, mi Cielo.”Listen to me, my sky.Santiago holds her hand in both of his. “Walker whole-stubborn-heartedly agrees with us, so it’s three against one. You’re not going to win this battle.”
Blake narrows her gaze. “We’ll see.”
Santiago’s right. She’s not going to win this one. Blake can probably get us to do a lot of things, but this isn’t one of them. Even after everything settles, we’re still going to worry about her.
Glancing at my watch, I make note of the time.
“I have an appointment that’s going to be here any minute,” I announce.
Blake whirls to face me, brows raised in outrage. “Are you kicking us out?”
I’m not sure whether I should laugh or kiss her.
Patting her knee, I shake my head. “I would never. I’m just letting you know that I won’t be in here for a bit.”
Rising to my feet, I start to gather the trash, but Blake snatches it out of my hands. “I got this. You go do your sexy vet thing.”
She says it so casually, like she doesn’t realize that she just destroyed every coherent thought in my head.
Lifting a brow, I smirk. “You think it’s sexy?”
Instead of answering, Blake shoos me away. “Get out of here.”
“Alright, alright,” I return, holding my hands up as I leave the kitchen.
I meander to the second exam room to prep for Fluffy, Harold Whitcombe’s sheep.
The appointment itself is routine. The elderly ewe with an abscessed hood and Harold, who apologized every ten seconds as though the infection were somehow his fault.
Normally, work demands every iota of my attention.
Today, however, every few minutes, my mind wanders to the woman down the hall.
Blake has a habit of making herself at home. If I know her at all, she’s already cozied up in my desk chair in my office, raiding my snack drawer.
The thought makes me smile.
The appointment lasts longer than expected. Sheep don’t appreciate having their infected hooves cleaned, and Fluffy proved particularly tenacious in expressing that opinion.
By the time I finish bandaging the leg and sending Harold home with antibiotics and instructions, nearly an hour had passed.
Abbott volunteers to handle the paperwork for which I thank him repeatedly, then I head toward my office.
An odd silence greets me. “Blake? Santi?” I call out.
“Here.” Blake’s voice is a little shaky.
“Sorry that took so long,” I apologize as I enter the room. “That poor sheep had?—”
Blake stands perfectly still behind my desk.
A hidden closet door hangs open.
Shipping tubes and packages are scattered on the floor.
