Author: Kristan Higgins

“No apology needed,” he answered.

Ian waited on the catwalk as I went into Noah’s room to find another silicone sock. Then I zipped down the hall into my own room to get my laptop and, let’s be honest, check my hair. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.

My heart was beating a little fast, and not just because I’d hurtled up the stairs. Also, my cheeks were hot. I was…hmm. A little horny. Yanking off my fur-covered jeans, I opened my crowded closet and surveyed the contents. A skirt, definitely. I had fab legs. But not too flirty, because yes, I was working. Choosing a darling little pink and green plaid A-line with fun pleats at the bottom, I pulled it on, topped it with a sleeveless green silk tank, grabbed a matching cardigan, then dug out my bottle-green suede peep-toe shoes with three-inch heels.

“I’ll be right out,” I called to Ian as I kicked some laundry under the bed. Not, of course, that Ian would come in here. But it was strange to have him there, right outside my bedroom. Thrilling, even. They say that men think of sex every ten seconds or something. Maybe Ian was having thoughts about me…naughty thoughts. Dirty thoughts. Long, hot, steamy thoughts of tumbling onto my big, comfortable bed, kissing my neck, moving lower, his hand working its way…

Hellooo? Anyone home? Michelle Obama said. Right! I was doing a freelance job. Still, I went over to my laptop and typed a quick message to Annie. Am going out to dinner with vet. Business only, but am having sex thoughts. I figured she’d be proud. Then closed the cover, stuffed the laptop into its case, dashed on a little MAC lip gloss, fluffed my hair, then went to the door and opened it.

“All set,” I said.

Ian looked up, his eyes most definitely checking out my legs. Great choice, that cute little skirt! Indeed, he was staring.

“Is that a Morelock chair?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling modestly. “I ran track in…what?”

“Your rocking chair. Do you know who made it?”

It was perhaps the first time I hadn’t been thrilled to discuss my beloved rocking chair. “Um…yes. It’s a Morelock chair.” I paused. “Good eye, Ian.”

“Can I see it?”

I blushed. He was coming into my bedroom! Betty Boop squealed and fluttered her eyelashes. To admire the furniture, the First Lady said pointedly. “Sure,” I mumbled.

He came in, not even glancing at my inviting bed. Hmmph. Well. The chair was special, and for some reason, I was glad Ian recognized that. It was, after all, my prize possession, the first thing I’d try to save in case of fire, right after Bowie and Noah (though Noah was pushing it these days).

“Where’d you find it?” he asked, not touching the chair and, bless him, not asking to sit in it.

“Actually,” I murmured, staring at the chair myself, “Mr. Morelock gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”

Ian looked at me in surprise. “You knew him?”

“I only met him once, but Noah knew him,” I said. “In fact, this is the last chair he ever made.”

Ian nodded once. “Well,” I said. “We should go, I guess, before it gets too late.” I paused. “We can walk, if you want. It’s not far.”

“Sure,” Ian said.

“Do you want Angie to come in? Noah won’t mind. He loves dogs.”

“Thank you. That would be great.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER, we were walking down the twisting street. The sun was setting, and birds sang in the trees. Ten yards away, the Trout River rushed past, shushing and murmuring its river song. It was almost romantic, save for the fact that my laptop banged into my hip every other step and Ian didn’t say a word the whole way there. Luckily, Elements wasn’t far, which was good, because these shoes, while adorable, were also vices of death.

“Callie Grey!” a masculine voice purred the minute I opened the door. “My God, look at your legs, they’re proof of a loving God.”

Ian looked confused. I beamed and kissed the owner of the voice.

Annie’s brother, Dave, was part owner and manager of Elements, and of course I loved him madly. He looked like an Alaskan crab fisherman, rough and unshaven and so, so alpha, but unlike my crushes in Deadliest Catch, he knew how to dress.

“So who’s this?” Dave asked, scanning Ian up and down and putting a proprietary arm around my shoulders. “I’m Dave, Callie’s friend and protector, half owner of this fine establishment.” Dave stuck out his hand, which Ian shook.

“Hello,” he said.

“Ian, this is my friend, Dave. Dave, Ian McFarland, our town’s new vet. I’m helping him out on a project, so can we have a booth? I have my laptop.”

“Of course! Right this way.” Dave led us through Elements, which, like Noah’s place, had once been part of the mill industry, meaning it had uneven floors, brick walls and lots of character.

Various River Rats were assembled in the bar (big surprise there), and a chorus arose as we passed. “Callie! Hey, girl! How’s Noah?”

I waved and grinned. “Hi, gang! Can’t talk now, don’t want to, have better company than you bozos!”

“Attagirl!”

“Take me with you,” Shaunee Cole called, lifting her martini glass.

“Marry me, Callie!” boomed Jake Pelletier, who’d actually made the trip to the altar three times thus far…he was only forty, so we figured he had six or seven marriages left in him.

“Come on, Prom Queen,” Dave urged, rolling his eyes. “Ian, she’s still the most popular girl in school.” He waved us to our booth, which was not far from the bar and right under the large copper wall hanging (i.e., the best seat in the house) and proceeded to hand out the endless stream of menus…daily specials, wine list, martini choices, food. “And how is that ill-tempered little coworker of yours?” Dave asked. His reunion with Damien was, inevitably, just around the corner, but to mention this would undercut the drama, so…

“He’s sulky, miserable and bitter,” I said.

“You’re just saying that to make me happy.” Dave winked. Such a shame that he batted for the other team…we would’ve made beautiful babies. “Well, I’ll let you two get to work. Enjoy your dinner! Nice to meet you, Ian.” Dave took my hand, kissed it, then wandered off to find someone else to schmooze.

“You know a lot of people,” Ian commented, shaking out his napkin and putting it in his lap.

“You will, too,” I said, taking a sip of water. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. And you should join the River Rats. They’re a…” I made quotation marks with my fingers… “rowing club.”

“Yeah, join up, hottie!” Shaunee called. “We’ll corrupt you!”

“Yes, they’re great,” I said loudly, “if you like lazy, drunken revelers with no purpose in life other than trying to drown themselves.”

“Yeah!” my compadres cheered, toasting each other and high-fiving. I smiled. “Callie, we’re going over to Whoop & Holler,” Mitch Jenkins called. “Drop by later if you get a chance.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. I watched fondly as the eight or nine Rats jostled their way out of the bar, then glanced over at Ian, who was watching as well. “They’re really a fun bunch,” I said.

“Rowing club?” he asked.

“Drinking club, more like it, but yes. They go whitewater kayaking a few times a month, go drinking a few times a week. In October, they hold this funny little regatta.” I took a sip of water. “They love my grandfather. It’s a little cultish, actually.” Mark was a member of the River Rats, though in name only. I wondered if Muriel would join. I sure hoped not.

Ian nodded, then picked up one of the leather-bound menus. Not much of a talker, this guy. We perused our menus in silence, though I kept darting looks across the table. The whole grumpy Russian thing was really starting to grow on me.

“So, Ian, why don’t we get started?” I said once we’d ordered. “I figured we’d do a Web site, and there’d be a section called ‘About Dr. McFarland,’ which is pretty standard. So.” I slid my laptop out of its case and popped it open. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I went to New York University for undergrad, Tufts for veterinary school,” he said.

“Yes, I read your diplomas. What else?”

“I did research on joint degeneration and taught at UVM before taking over for Dr. Kumar.”

I typed a few lines. “Okay, well, how about some personal stuff?”

His eyes grew wary. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, why did you move to our fair state?”

He looked at his place setting, then adjusted his fork a millimeter. “I liked New England. And Laura was from Boston.”

Ah, Laura. I was deeply interested in Laura. “Did you guys live in Vermont when you were married?” I asked. Do you still talk? Do you still love her? Did she break your heart?

“Yes. Burlington.” He took a breath—clearly, this was not how he’d choose to spend an evening—but he forged onward. “But I spent one summer in Georgebury when I was a kid.”

“Really?” The idea that Ian had been nearby was utterly thrilling.

He nodded. “I stayed with my uncle.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Maybe I know him.”

“Carl Villny. My mother’s brother. He died about ten years ago.”

Villny. A Russian name, if I wasn’t mistaken. Suppressing a smile (Was your uncle a Soviet mole, perchance?), I shook my head. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” I paused. “So you liked it up here, and after your divorce, you moved back?”

He nodded.

I waited for more. Smiled firmly. It worked.

“Right,” he said. “Um…I moved a lot when I was a kid, as I told you. My, um…my mother is a doctor, and she works in a lot of third world countries.” He paused. “I think we moved fifteen, twenty times. I lived all over.”

“Holy guacamole,” I said. “Now that is an unconventional childhood!”

“Yes.” He adjusted his cutlery again. “Don’t put that on the Web site.”

“Why?”

“It’s not relevant.” His jaw looked a little knotty.

“Well, here’s the thing, Ian,” I said. “If people feel they know you a little, they’ll trust you more.”

He shifted. “Right. But don’t put that on the Web site.”

I shrugged. “All right. Well, why do you love animals?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of a vapid question, don’t you think?”

I gritted my teeth. “Not to your clients, Dr. McFarland! Can you please scrape up an answer?”

He sighed. Looked at the table. Looked back at me. “They’re loyal. Next question?”

My turn to heave a sigh. “Here. Why don’t I just put my laptop away and you can pretend I’m your sister and we’re just having a chat, okay?”

“No.”

“Why?” I demanded. “If you want me to do this for you, you’re going to have to help.”

“I can’t pretend you’re my sister.”

It might’ve been a cute line, if, for example, it had been said by someone else. But in Ian’s case, the meaning was quite literal. Rolling my eyes, I put the laptop away and gave up for the moment.

Our server brought us dinner—trout almondine for me, with this little stack of green beans and a risotto that smelled like heaven; grilled salmon and mashed potatoes for Ian. We ate in silence for a moment or two.

“Here’s what we can do,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk about yourself that much, we’ll just say you spent a summer here as a kid, fell in love with Vermont, were so excited when the chance came to move here permanently. We’ll put up a really great picture of you and Angie, the smokin’ hottie vet and his best girl.” This got a small smile. Hello! That little flash was quite…delicious. However, I was in professional mode and barely noticed (snort). “And then we’ll ask for pictures of your clients and their pets. We’ll have to get releases, but that won’t be a problem. We’ll have a section called ‘Ask Dr. McFarland,’ where people can write in asking why Rover chews Mommy’s best shoes, and you can answer in a friendly and approachable tone.” I paused, took another bite of the delicious trout. “With me so far?”