Page 60 of Wishing Hearts

Tilda sighs dreamily—actually sighs—before standing up and pointing toward a nearby door. “Through there.”

I follow Tilda’s direction, and she meets me on the other side of the door. A couple hallways branch off in either direction as we walk, and the sound of dogs becomes louder once more.

“Sammy is prob’ly out back,” she says as we walk. “Whenever he has a spare moment, that’s where he goes—to play with the dogs. You’ve got a dog, isn’t that right, Doctor Bailey?”

“I sure do,” I say with a chuckle.

Tilda hums. “That’s good. Ah,” she says, stopping in front of a windowed door and looking outside. “There he is.”

I follow her gaze, and through the slightly dusty glass, I can make out Sam, running along a fence with a ball in his hand. Several dogs are chasing after him, and I bite my lip so hard it hurts. My God. This man.

“Is it okay if I head out there?” I ask Tilda.

She gives me a nod before turning around and patting my shoulder. “You bet. And Doctor Bailey?”

“Harrison, please,” I tell her.

She nods again, her face soft, even as her eyes are sharp and on my person. “Harrison. Sammy’s one of the good ones, y’know?”

I nod. I do know.

“He’s not afraid to get hurt,” she goes on. “And that’s a rare thing. A rare and dangerous thing.”

I nod again, feeling very much like I’m being dressed down by Sam’s honorary mother. Frankly, I don’t mind. I’m glad Sam has this. That he has his people.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” I tell her honestly.

Tilda appraises me for a second longer before squeezing my shoulder again and walking away. Blowing out a breath, I push the door open and step through.

The barking intensifies once I’m outside, and I take a quick look around. There are several large, fenced-in yards for the dogs to play in, as well as individual run-style cages underneath the shade of a metal roof. A family and another employee, based on their outfit, are in one of the smaller yards with a dog, likely feeling out a potential adoption.

But Sam… Sam is in a fenced area of his own with at least a dozen dogs, a wide smile on his face as he stops running and throws the ball as hard as he can in the opposite direction. Most of the dogs pivot, chasing the ball, but a couple stop near Sam’s feet, tongues out, doggy smiles on their faces.

When Sam turns his head and catches sight of me approaching, his smile goes crooked and bright. He jogs over, stopping on the other side of the wire fence.

“Hey,” he breathes out, sounding winded.

“Hi,” I return, my insides swooping. “Are you ready for lunch, or should I wait?”

“I’m ready,” he says. “Just needa get these kids settled first.”

“Okay,” I say with a chuckle.

Sam gives me a wink before turning around and jogging off. He whistles, and most of the dogs follow him over to a gate near the covered section of cages. He opens it up, letting the dogs through, and then he starts dividing them up, putting one or two at a time inside the empty runs. Most of the dogs immediately go for the water bowls, and none complain about the shift of location, not even the final straggler, a fuzzy white dog that’s last to go through the gate.

Once all of the dogs are secure, some already lying down with their stomachs against the cool concrete, Sam makes his way over to me. He looks so sure, as he always does, his strides purposeful. His navy-blue uniform fits him well, and that little silver badge on his chest gleams in the sun. He grabs his hat as he comes through the final gate, setting it back on his head, and then he’s in front of me, brown eyes bright and so obviously glad to see me.

Transparent, like glass.

“C’mon,” he says, canting his head. “There’s a table out this way.”

I follow Sam through another round of two gates and over to the side of the building. Much like at my practice, there’s a picnic table here, but this one is covered by a large shade umbrella. Sam drops his hat onto one of the bench seats, but before I can sit down, he tugs me close.

“C’mere,” he says gently, taking first the bag from my hand and setting it down, and then removing my own hat. As soon as it hits the wooden table, Sam lifts his arms and threads his fingers through my hair.

My eyes slip closed, and I’m pretty sure a little moan escapes, but the next instant, Sam’s lips are pressed ever so softly against my own, and all other thoughts flee. I grab his arms, anchoring, tethering, and Sam nudges my mouth open. My breath stutters at the simple touch of his tongue against my top lip. Just a caress. A tiny thing.

And so very big.

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