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We do the tasting, and both honestly pick the one we like the best. It’s the same.
“It actually tastes green,” I admit.
She throws a fist in the air. “It’s a blonde ale I infused with mint.”
“Definitely a winner. You did good, Fawna.” Francesca glances at me. “How many today?”
“Fifteen,” I answer as I try to hide a yawn.
“And today was the last weekly clinic where you give up every Saturday to spay and neuter animals basically for free,” Fawna states as she looks at me for confirmation. She’s been trying to get me to stop for a year now.
“Just one clinic a month.” Although I’m not sure if I can stick with that based on the fact that all the spots are filled up for five months in advance.
“Why am I getting buuuut vibes?” Fawna asks.
“Ugh, fine. I’ve reached out to some other local vets to see if they’d volunteer some time; if not, we’re going to have an even bigger problem down the road, and it’s those little furry bundles of love, who ask for next to nothing, who will suffer. I’ve also contacted some of my professors to see if they have students who might be interested in coming here to volunteer and get some experience.”
“Them coming to you wouldn’t give you time to have a life outside of work,” Francesca accuses, rightfully.
“It could evolve into something bigger. There are two surgical rooms we’re not even using. There’s also a building out back that used to be a kennel, which I could use for boarding and grooming services, as well. It needs work. My sister’s husband offered, but they’ve done so much for me already.”
When I realize they look overwhelmed for me, I tell myself to dial it down.
“There’s only so much time in the day.” Fawna draws my attention back to the here and now.
“I know,” I concede.
“Plus, you missed Saturday morning yoga with Dante, and then ended up being an hour late to meet your girls. Who was it this time? Some chick who was out buying matching sweaters for her and her pookie?”
And here’s my opening.
I wag my brows. “Funny you should ask.”
“What does that even mean?” Fawna laughs.
“Three words.” I hold up a finger. “Tall”—and another—“Dark”—and a third—“Filthy.”
They both squeal.
“And he asked for your number.”
“Did you give it to him?” Francesca asks.
I shake my head. “But he told me that if you ever wanted it, I could give you his.”
“Give us a name,” Fawna insists.
I use a deep, sexy man voice. “Charles Turner.”
“Charles Turner, the second baseman for the Jags? How the hell did I not know this? I’ve been eye fucking his ass for a year now.”
“No idea,” I say as I slide out of my stool.
Fawna walks around and out from behind the bar. “Hey, you’re not leaving.”
“I need a nap,” I say around a yawn.
“Please tell me you didn’t stay up all night, watching serial killer documentaries,” Fawna scolds playfully.
