Page 77 of Fool Moon First Aid

Suddenly, I’m caught by another set of arms, these ones soft, lacking the rough edges of someone used to physical labor. “Ava, are you all right?” he asks, his voice smooth but somehow lacking genuine concern. I look up, squinting against the fading light, into eyes that share the same hue as Miss Piggy’s but are filled with a whole different set of intentions.

He looks like he’s never worked a day in his life, but damn, he wears it well. A rogue curl falls across his forehead, highlighting the sprinkle of freckles and a smile that could light up the darker corners of my skepticism. Yeah, he’s cute. Scratch that, he’s a walking, talking temptation.

His mother’s shrill voice pierces the quiet night. “Oh, a perfect match!” she squeals. “She’s literally falling for him already.”

Heat floods my cheeks at her words. Because you damn near tripped me, bitch.

“Mother.” Elijah tries to temper his mom’s enthusiasm, his cheeks flushing a vivid shade of red that screams mortification.

Mrs. Castellon, unfazed and brimming with glee, makes me yearn for an escape. “Well, let’s go inside before it gets too chilly,” she chirps, clasping her hands together like she’s about to receive the world’s best secret. “We can retreat to the parlor and have a drink before dinner.”

I hate her.

I find myself casting a glance at my father, who stands in quiet conversation with Elijah’s father—a man who mirrors my dad in age but carries a presence that’s both imposing and unsettling. Elijah, the spitting image of his father, lacks only the years and the weight that his father carries, yet his eyes hold a coldness that makes my skin crawl.

“Let me help you inside.” Elijah’s voice pulls me back from my observations, his hand gently pressing against my elbow, guiding me with a carefulness that feels at odds with the grandeur of the mansion looming before us. My ankle screams with every step on the grand staircase. I’m going to have to put it up and ice it later. Maybe I can convince the guys to make me tacos.

Why does it feel like I’m the only one who thinks crutches aren’t a fashion faux pas?

“I hear you are a veterinarian.” Elijah attempts what could generously be called small talk. His tone is curious, but it feels like we’re tiptoeing around the real questions.

“I am,” I reply, injecting as much pride into my voice as I can muster under the circumstances. Why did I even come here?

“Are you attached?” He throws the question out casually as we step into the grand parlor, but it lands like a bomb. I blink, thrown off by the sudden shift from small talk to personal interrogation.

“Excuse me?” The question slips out, edged with a blend of surprise and annoyance. His inquiry, vague yet invasive, demands clarity.

“Are you attached?” he repeats, his eyes searching mine for an answer that might as well be written in a foreign language for all the sense it makes.

Oh, so he meant to say that bullshit.

“Yes,” I retort before I can stop myself, my response more of a defiant reflex than a considered reply. My clinic, my first love, now seems like a distant dream that my father and now Elijah are hell-bent on stealing from me.

Elijah guides me to a chair that promises a moment of comfort, and I practically fall into it, my ankle screaming in pain. Elijah’s expression darkens as he watches me, the air thick with the scent of cigar smoke.

The parlor, with its oversized fireplace and lavish furnishings, feels less like a room and more like a stage set for judgment. Miss Piggy perches on a loveseat, her presence as overwhelming as her personality.

“Sell it,” Elijah’s father states as he puffs on a cigar, his large frame settling into a chair. “What’s it worth? A few thousand?”

Surprise renders me speechless. He can’t be serious.

I’m still reeling from the shock of the conversation’s turn when my father casually usurps my chance to respond, declaring, “I had it assessed just this morning.” My jaw practically detaches and hits the floor. “It’s worth half a million.”

“I thought it’d be worth more than that,” Elijah muses, striding over with two drinks in his hands. When I hesitate, he places the tumbler before me with a pointed look, his nostrils flaring in a way that morphs his handsome features into something ominously villainous. His grip tightens around my wrist, a silent command veiled under the guise of courtesy. “Drink up, darling.”

The room, steeped in the warmth of a grand fireplace that casts long shadows over opulent furnishings, suddenly feels colder. Mr. Castellon, puffing away at his cigar with an air of indifference, suggests, “Well, we can either upgrade it or sell as is.” He settles into his chair like a king surveying his court, seemingly ready to dismiss the clinic—and by extension, my life’s work—with a wave of his hand.

I’m too shocked to react. I should run out of here right now, screaming for the guys.

Across from me, nearest to the fire and basking in its glow, my father takes a seat. “Yes, her employee, Eloise, has offered to purchase the clinic,” he reveals, accepting a drink from Elijah with a nonchalance that belies the gravity of his words. “Honestly, once we announce the engagement, the value will rise. I suggest waiting until the wedding date is set before selling.”

My world tilts a little more with each word they exchange over my head, as if I’m not even here. My future, my dreams, are dissected and discussed like just another transaction.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Miss Piggy coos, her voice dripping with a condescension that makes my skin crawl. “It’s best just to let your father discuss the negotiations. After all, the men know what we women need best. Isn’t that right, Elijah?” Her gaze, filled with an expectation of agreement, finds her son, who’s now seated beside me, emanating a confidence that feels unearned.

“Yes, of course,” he agrees, turning to me with a smile that disturbs me in ways I can’t express. Something just isn’t right with him. “My darling Ava, I will expect you to be at my side for all public appearances. You won’t have time for work anymore.”

“I’d love for her to be on the benefit board with me.” Miss Piggy looks to her husband for approval, then claps her hands in delight at the prospect of my inevitable torture.

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