Page 17 of The Mistletoe Kisser
He took a step back like she was asking him to hold her pet snake. The backs of his legs caught the edge of the waiting room bench, and he half-fell, half-sat.
She reached out and took his hand, and for a split second, Ryan felt something besides the cold, besides the frustration and despair that had lodged in his very soul for a week. It was a warm shock to the system. For a second, he craved more with an intensity that made him rather nervous.
But that shot of heat dissipated when she firmly placed the end of the belt in his hand and closed his fingers around it.
“No,” he insisted, tossing the leash back at her.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“I have no sheep experience, and I’m in the middle of several personal crises. Soyoucan take this sheep and doyourdamn job.”
“Are you staying on Carson’s farm?” Sammy asked, ignoring his very logical argument.
“Yes, but—”
“Put him in the barn tonight and then let him into the south pasture in the morning. The fence is in good shape, and there’s tall fescue in there for grazing.”
“You’re a veterinarian. You can’t turn your back on a sheep in need. I almost ran him over. I have no idea what fescue is. Stan is in mortal danger in my care.”
She laughed. “I have faith in you, Ryan.”
“Great. A stranger in wet Santa scrubs who smells like animal urine has faith in me. That means the world,” he ranted. He was tired. Hungry. Grumpier than usual. And had concerns that he was careening into a full-blown nervous breakdown.
She released a sigh nearly as weary as his soul felt. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.
“Why in the hell would I remember you?” he demanded. He’d never been to this bizarre, little, special-brownie twilight zone before and he highly doubted she’d come to him for accounting advice. He would have remembered that face, those lavender eyes.
“Winter Solstice Celebration? Fifteen years ago? One Love Park?” she pressed.
“I know very few of the words that just came out of your mouth.”
Fifteen years ago, his parents had announced their divorce. He’d spent that Christmas morning in his father’s bare-walled condo eating cold cereal and opening a plastic bag of unwrapped presents. That afternoon he’d been shuttled to his mother’s new townhouse to repeat the process. It had sucked. Every Christmas since had pretty much sucked too.
Great. An hour in this damn polar hamlet, and he was already suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.
“You seriously don’t remember?”
Now she looked annoyed.Good.Ryan liked annoyed better than amused. “Look. I don’t know you. I don’t know this sheep. And I have shit to do,” he announced.
With that, he spun on his heel and pushed through the door.
“It’s not like I don’t know where you’re staying,” she called after him.
“I’ll be gone by lunch tomorrow,” he predicted.
Without a backward glance at Goat Guy chasing the big goat around the parking lot, Ryan headed in the French-accented direction of the nearest liquor store.
The Monthly Moon:Apocalypse Recovery a Long Road: How to Grow Out Your Perm by Anthony Berkowicz
6
Lunar Liquors was located across the street from a grocery store called Farm and Field Fresh. Ryan zipped his car into a spot at the back of the lot. On reflex, he pulled out his phone and tried to check his work emails. When the app prompted him for his new username and password, he remembered there was no work, therefore, no work emails.
He did, however, have a text from Bart Lumberto, one co-worker he wouldn’t be missing. Bart was a pot-bellied ass-kisser who stole clients and dumped all the work on the firm’s bookkeepers. His aunt was a partner which meant Bart had never been taken to task for his assholery.
Bart: Trying it on for size. Thanks for the bigger office, dipshit.
Ryan gripped his phone so hard the case cracked. The jackass had sent a picture ofhisfeet propped onRyan’sdesk.
