Page 8 of Wild Then Wed
“She’s not in any pain,” I assure her. “Her weight is stable. Her appetite?”
“She ate. A little.”
“Any vomiting?”
“No.”
“Litter box normal?”
“Far as I can tell.”
I give Bubbles one last check, then scoop her gently into my arms and place her back in the soft, flannel-lined carrier. It smells like dryer sheets and catnip.
“She’s healthy, Mrs. Patterson. No signs of illness. No change in vitals.”
She lets out a shaky breath, sagging a little in her coat. “I just—I lost my Marty last spring, you know. And now it’s just me and her. She’s all I have.”
I nod. Not because I didn’t know—she’s told me every visit—but because sometimes people need to keep saying it out loud.
“She’s still got a lot of life in her,” I say. “You’re taking good care of her.”
That seems to soothe her for about three seconds.
“You know,” she says, glancing at me with a raised brow. “My granddaughter Melanie just moved back to town.”
Here we go.
“She’s thirty-two. No kids. Works in real estate. Very driven and she loves animals. I just know the two of you would hit it off, Dr. Hart.”
I keep my expression polite as I strip off my gloves and toss them in the bin. “That’s very sweet of you, but I’m not dating right now.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s still true.”
She tuts under her breath. “You work too hard and you’re too handsome to be alone this long. It’s not…normal.”
I give her a tired half-smile. “I appreciate the concern.”
She studies me for a beat longer like she’s trying to find the crack in the armor, then sighs and snaps the top of the carrier shut. “If she starts breathing funny again, can I bring her back in?”
“Absolutely.”
She gives a small smile, then heads out the front door in a swirl of perfume and fleece-lined boots.
The bell over the door chimes, and then it’s quiet again. I take a breath, let it settle.
The clinic smells like antiseptic and cedarwood from the candle my receptionist insists on lighting. It’s clean. Sleek. Brushed steel counters, white walls, modern track lighting overhead. No clutter. No mess. Everything in its place.
It looks like a clinic you’d find in any city. That was intentional. The ranch back home is all rough edges and weathered wood and rooms that remember too much, and I needed a space that felt nothing like that.
I built it a couple years before Julia and I started trying for a baby. I wanted something that just worked. A place that wasmine.Clean, quiet, and easy to keep in order.
Growing up the oldest of seven, I didn’t have much that ever felt like it was fully mine. Not a bedroom. Not a meal. Everything was shared, loud, and constantly moving.
Some people find that kind of chaos charming. They’ll tell you it means you were surrounded by love. That big families are warm and lively and full of built-in best friends.
And maybe that’s true—for them. But for me? It was a lot.
