Author: Kristan Higgins

“I’m trying to watch America’s Next Top Model!” our dear grandfather shouted. “Go upstairs, you two!”

“He’s very dedicated,” I told Hester, grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge. “He thinks Tenisha’s going to win, but her pictures last week…train wreck.”

Hester sighed. “Callie, I need advice,” she said.

I paused as I reached for the glasses. This was new. “Um…okay. Sure. Let’s go up to my room.”

“Finally,” Noah muttered as we passed his chair. “Hello, Hester.”

“Hi, Grumpy,” she said.

“Takes one to know one,” he returned.

Upstairs, Hester sat on my bed, well aware of the ban on the Morelock chair, and poured herself a glass of wine ’til it hit the brim. “How are you?” she asked, then chugged half the glass.

“Um, I’m good,” I said. “And you?”

“Great. Just great,” she said.

“So what can I advise you on, Hes?” I asked, sitting in my office chair.

“Bronte’s been having a rough time lately.”

I nodded. “More than just adolescence?”

“Well,” Hester said, “she says she feels like a misfit up here…adopted, mixed race, single mother, funeral home in the family.”

“Right,” I said.

“So this morning she comes down to breakfast and gives me a list of all the reasons she doesn’t fit in, from her skin color to that wonky toenail on her left foot.”

I smiled. “It’s always freaked me out, I’ll be honest.”

Hester smiled back a little, and then, abruptly, her eyes filled with tears. “So she said if there was one thing on the list that she could actually change, it would be having a single mother.”

“What?” I breathed. “She wants to be put back in foster care?”

“No, idiot. She wants me to marry someone.”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, that makes more sense.” Or not. “Wow, Hes.”

“I’ve tried so hard, Callie,” she wept. “You know. Don’t end up like Mom, avoid men, adopt a child who needs a home, be stable and normal and strict and loving, and here she shoots me right in my Achilles’ heel!”

“That’s what kids do, I guess,” I murmured, handing my sister a box of tissues.

“Exactly. All my life I haven’t needed a man. Never wanted to, because look how it f**ked up Mom, right? Now my kid needs a father, and it just sucks!”

“Well, just tell her it’s not for you. Tell her how much you love her and all that—”

“I already have!” Hester said, wiping her eyes. She blew her nose so loudly Bowie jumped up and barked. “Bronte said she had to make a huge adjustment to become my daughter, and the least I can do is try to make one for her.”

“She’s good,” I murmured.

“I know,” Hester said.

Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her, living with her fourth foster family in Queens, New York. She hadn’t wanted to leave the city; it took her months to sleep through the night. She’d barely spoken that first year.

“So,” Hester said, flopping down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “Can you help me find a boyfriend? I was thinking of that vet guy.”

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Um, Hes, I kind of…like him.”

“Okay. Do you know anyone else?” Obviously, my sister didn’t care who it was.

“Do you really want a boyfriend, Hester?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’ll give it a shot.” She glanced at me. “It’s what you do when you have kids. And then, when Bronte sees what a clusterfuck dating is, she’ll drop it, I’ll take her to get her hair straightened, and maybe that will be the end of it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good plan, in a freakish, insincere way.”

“Exactly. So? Any names? You know everyone in town.”

“Do they have to be good-looking and employed and normal?”

“Nah,” Hester said. “Just single.”

“Okay, then. Yes, I know lots of men,” I said. “I’ll make a list. I have a guy who makes macramé out of human hair, a farmer who doesn’t talk or bathe, Jake Pelletier and his three ex-wives…” I looked up at my sister. “Plenty to choose from.”

“Perfect. That’ll set Bronte straight. Thanks, Callie,” my sister said sincerely. “I knew I could count on you.”

THE MORNING OF THE PET fair dawned bright and beautiful, a perfect fall day, the air crisp, the sun warm, the leaves abruptly unbelievable. Honestly, the trees glowed as if lit from within, Nature’s personal cathedral.

“Do you want to go see Dr. Ian? Do you?” I asked Bowie, who leaped onto his feet at the very thought. Then again, he tended to leap to his feet for anything.

I got dressed…no skirt or dress today, alas, but still, I wanted to look good, as I was sort of running this thing. And I’d be busy: There was the dog agility course, face painting, refreshments. Josephine and the Brownies would be dressed like cats or dogs, collecting for the Vermont Humane Society. The Senior Center had a choir—the Merryatrics (I thought of the name, thank you very much…they’d been high on my chocolate chip cookies that day and had nearly voted in favor of One Foot in the Grave) would be performing animal-related songs, such as “Barracuda” and “Eye of the Tiger” (they were a frisky lot). I’d confirmed with Sergeant Davis of the state police K-9 unit yesterday. Bethanne, the pet psychic who also worked as a nurse in Hester’s office, was thrilled at the chance to use her sixth sense. I had even—and this had been the hardest sell of all—I had even convinced Noah to come and whittle little cats and dogs to sell, the proceeds of which would go to the local animal shelter. Ian’s three-person staff would all be there to help as well.

If the advertising career didn’t work out, I could always do event planning, I thought as I surveyed myself in the mirror. “You’re very cute,” I said aloud. Smiled to prove it. Remembered what Ian had said about not needing to try so hard. Sighed.

Going into the bedroom, I glanced at my rocking chair. The sunlight poured through my window, illuminating the honeyed tiger maple. I ran a finger over the back, gave it a little push to see it rock, its smooth, gentle movement never failing to charm me. It was waiting, I thought. Waiting to be used for more than the occasional comfort session. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet.

“Let’s go, Bowie!” I said, earning a high yip and three whirling-dervish circles from my beloved.

Noah was waiting in the kitchen, scowling, a sweater vest over his flannel shirt—his version of dressed up.

“You look very nice, Grampy,” I said.

“What do you know?” he retorted. Then he recalled that he loved me and pinched my chin. “So do you, sweetheart. So do you.”

“You haven’t been hitting the sauce, have you?” I asked.

“That’s what I get for being nice,” he said, limping for the door. “Get in the damn truck. I’m driving.”

When we pulled up to the vet practice, there were already people milling about, a few Brownies and Scouts, the DJ, Bethanne, the pet psychic. Hester was there, sitting under a tent, booming into her phone. “No, it’s completely normal, it’s the injections. Just tell your husband to lock up any weapons, okay? Let’s be on the safe side.” She jerked her chin our way.

Fred, whom I’d bribed and blackmailed into being my helper, was running an extension cord to the PA system. He waved. “Hey, idiot!” I called, grinning.

“Hi, dumb-ass!” he returned.

“Have you seen Ian?”

“He’s inside,” Freddie answered.

Indeed he was. Gnawing on his thumbnail, staring out the window as if watching Mongol hordes descend. He was wearing a suit.

“Come on, Ian,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. I grabbed his arm and towed him down the hall to his office.

“Take off the suit,” I ordered.

“This is unexpected,” he said.

“Very funny. A suit, Ian?”

“Well, I thought it would—”

“Take off your tie,” I said, jerking the knot loose, “and get rid of the jacket.” I shoved it off his shoulders. His broad, manly shoulders. My movements slowed. Ian smelled good. Really, really good. Like rain, somehow, sharp and clean. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, slow and sure. Felt the heat from his body, which was just a fraction from mine. Those unexpected eyelashes, so blond and somehow sweet, softened his severe looks. There was a little smile in his eyes, and his mouth was very near. If I stood on tiptoe…

“Doc?” Earl, my old vet tech buddy, appeared in the doorway. “Oh. Sorry.”

Suddenly aware that I was basically undressing my client in his office, I jumped back a foot or so, maybe three, and cleared my throat loudly.

“What do you need, Earl?” Ian asked.

“The police officer was wondering if you could float him some etogesic,” Earl said.

“Sure. I’ll be right out,” Ian answered.

“Sorry again,” Earl said.

“No, no!” I chirped. “Just a little…wardrobe malfunction.”

“Whatever you say,” Earl said, winking. With that, he left.

“Sorry, Ian,” I muttered, my legs still a little weak. “I just…you know. A suit is not quite the look we’re going for. Dockers would’ve been perfect, a nice blue oxford to match your eyes…”

I was blushing. Big surprise.

“Being male, I generally don’t think about matching my eyes,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Well. You should. You have gorgeous eyes,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “Bowie has an eye the same color as yours, very clear blue, like the sky. But his other eye is brown. Like mine. Funny. One like yours, one like mine. Not that I mean anything by that. Okay. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Ian laughed, and the sound caught me right in the reproductive organs. Resisting the urge to pull a Bowie and flop on my back and offer myself up, I slapped my gaze out the window. Lust twisted hot and hard in my stomach. That was some laugh. Wow. Low and seductive and completely unexpected, that laugh.

“How’s this?” Ian asked.

I looked back at him. Swallowed. “Very nice. Much better,” I said. He’d taken off his tie and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves a few times, unbuttoned his shirt a couple. Would it be inappropriate to lick his neck? It probably would be. I cleared my throat. “Well, you’d better get out there,” I said. “It starts in ten minutes.”

A FEW HOURS LATER, IT was clear that the pet fair was a huge success.

Dogs of all kinds bounded in the area Freddie and I had designated as Dog Land. The obstacle course hadn’t worked so well, as none of the dogs seemed to get the concept and wanted only to mark their territory, but the Brownies had taken it over for their own purposes… Tess McIntyre had the best time thus far. The Merryatrics gave a rousing version of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Bethanne’s readings confirmed just how much everyone’s pets loved their owners. Noah carved animals, which Jody Bingham took upon herself to hand-sell. Kids ran around with their faces painted like tigers or dogs or Scottish warriors (that would’ve been Seamus, my dear godson, who wanted to look like William Wallace from Braveheart rather than Tigger). The drug-sniffing dog had found Freddie a “person of interest,” but Freddie made a compelling catnip argument, and the cop let Freddie pass after a quick lecture on the continued illegality of marijuana. Bronte had been in charge of Cause for Paws, which rescued cats. By telling people that she herself had found a new and wonderful life thanks to the wonders of adoption, she’d managed to pawn off fourteen felines thus far.