Page 60 of Down, Boy

"Do you?" The question is gentle but pointed. "Because Wade and I have been running Iron Creek our way for a while now. If you come back, you're going to want to do things differently. And if you bring Callie, she's going to want her own practice, her own way of doing things. Can you handle that? Can we?"

I think about Callie in the base kennel, questioning everything, pushing back on assumptions, making Dev rethink his entire approach to enrichment protocols.

I think about her in exam room one with Ranger, commanding and confident and completely in control.

I think about her telling me she built her practice herself, chose Pine Valley herself, made a life herself.

"Yeah," I say. "I can handle that. Can you?"

Jake laughs again. "Guess we'll find out. Talk to her, Dean. Figure out what she wants. Then call me back and we'll make it work."

He hangs up.

I sit in the booth for another few minutes, phone in hand, coffee long cold.

Maggie swings by with the pot. "Refill?"

"No thanks." I slide out of the booth, dropping cash on the table. "I need to go figure out how to grovel."

"Good." She pockets the cash. "And Flyboy? When you talk to her—actually listen. Don't just wait for your turn to talk."

"Yes, ma'am."

Outside, the sun is setting over Pine Valley, painting the Rockies in shades of orange and pink. Somewhere in this town, Callie is probably sitting on her porch with Biscuit, hating me.

I don't blame her.

But I'm not done fighting for this. For us.

Tomorrow, I'll talk to her. Figure out what we're actually building—together.

Tonight, I need to figure out what the hell I'm asking for.

And make sure the answer includes her, not just the idea of her.

Chapter 11

Callie

Afew days of perfectly normal veterinary work. Normal days of professional competence, pleasant small talk with clients, and absolutely no thinking about blue-gray eyes or stupid call signs.

My sheets still smell like him. I've washed them twice.

I'm fine.

"You look terrible," Sophie announces, appearing in the doorway of The Reading Nook's back office where I'm supposedly helping with inventory.

I don't look up from the clipboard. "Thanks. That helps."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night."

"Actual sleep. Not lying awake replaying conversations in your head."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I make another note on the clipboard, refusing to meet her eyes.

Sophie plucks the clipboard from my hands. "You just wrote 'Dean Mercer is an idiot' in the romance section inventory."