Page 10 of Wild Then Wed
“Seven.”
“Did she bring up the granddaughter?”
“Naturally.”
She laughs. “Maybe you should just give her a shot. Could be your soulmate, and you’re missing out on true love and homemade banana bread. Or some shit like that, I don’t really know.”
“I don’t even like banana bread.”
“Everyone likes banana bread.”
“I like not being set up by a woman who thinks her cat’s blinking is the difference between life or death.”
Jenna grins and taps something into the schedule. “Fair.”
She doesn’t push. She never does. That’s one of the things I like about her. She jokes, but there’s no edge to it. No follow-up questions. No nudging me toward something I’ve already made clear I don’t want.
She shows up, does her job, and doesn’t try to peel me open. She already has a serious girlfriend. I met her once—tattoos, buzzed hair, quiet smile. The two of them seem happy. And for some reason, that makes things easier between us. There’s no weird tension. No subtle glances. No wondering if her friendliness means more than it should.
Just clean, easy conversation. A rarity in my life these days.
“Tomorrow looks light,” she says, scanning the screen. “You want me to block the afternoon for that equipment install?”
“Yeah. Might as well get it done before the snow gets worse.”
Jenna hums, nodding, already moving on. Just like that, the subject shifts. No pressure. No commentary. And I’m gratefulfor that. It’s a small thing, but these days, small things carry weight.
The bell over the front door jingles, and cold air follows a woman and her golden-doodle into the clinic. The dog’s big, fluffy, and immediately excited—tail wagging hard enough to shake its whole back end.
“Hi there,” I say, standing as the dog beelines toward me. He leans into my legs like we’ve been best friends for years.
“Sorry,” the woman says, laughing a little as she shakes snow off her jacket. “He knows where the treats are.”
“He’s not wrong.” I reach toward the glass bowl on the counter and pull out a biscuit. The dog sits without being told, eyes locked on mine.
“Someone’s well trained.”
“He’s just motivated by food,” she says. “Same as my husband.”
I offer the biscuit with a smile. The dog takes it gently, tail still wagging, then flops down with a satisfied huff.
“What brings you in today?” I ask, crouching to check his front paws, which are dusted with salt and snowmelt.
“Just a nail trim. But I also just needed an excuse to get out of the house. It’s been nothing but talk about this damn water thing back in Summit.”
That makes me pause. I glance up. “What water thing?”
“You haven’t heard?” She looks surprised. “New county regulation. Only shared households with property over the aquifer get water rights come January.”
I stand. “Shared households?”
“Married couples. Multi-family ownership. That kind of thing.”
She says it casually, like it’s just one more thing to complain about over dinner. But my brain stops right there—on those two words.
Shared households.
The phrase runs through me like a wire tightening in my chest.
