20. Helen
HELEN
The invitation wasn’t kidding. My account went from tragic to ridiculous overnight, with enough zeroes that a new laptop and other upgrades don’t feel like dreams anymore.
But the best part?
I have Olivia on speaker, the phone docked properly, both hands on the wheel like a model citizen. The Hudson Valley rolls past in soft greens and old fences, a scenery that makes people romantic about driving. I’m just focused on not missing my turn.
“You are not going to believe this,” I say. “I just photographed a piglet.”
A delighted squeal comes through the speakers. “Stop. A real one?”
“Pink. Round. Kept booping my hand.” I giggle, still feeling the snout on my palm. “The client was six. She kept telling me which side was the piglet’s ‘good side.’”
“I love that you get paid for this,” Olivia says. “Meanwhile, I’m buried in reading.”
“Stanford reading,” I remind her. “Very elite suffering.”
She groans, but I can hear the smile. “It’s actually going really well. My bio professor is brutal. I’ve never studied harder out of pure fear.” There’s a brief pause, then she clears her throat. “Hey. Thank you. For covering Winter and Spring. All of it.”
“Via…”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I just wanted to say it. I appreciate you.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, firm and light at the same time. “You focus on becoming Dr. Olivia Mercer. That’s the deal.”
“But are you okay?” she presses. “I mean—are you stretching yourself too thin?”
I snort. “Please. I’m busy, not fragile. Summit Tail just extended the campaign, and PetBed was thrilled. You remember the Ibizan Hound I told you about? Absolute professional. Honestly, easier to pose than some adults.”
The road curves ahead, narrowing, trees pulling closer. That’s when I see it—something dark near the shoulder of the road. Too big to be debris. Too restless to be nothing.
“Hang on,” I say, already slowing. My eyes stay on the road. “I need to pull over.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a bird.” I ease the car onto the shoulder, hazards on. “No—wait. It’s a hawk.”
My heart kicks up as I grab my jacket. One wing is splayed at an odd angle, the bird upright but clearly struggling, sharp eyes tracking every movement.
“Hey, Via,” I say, opening the door carefully. “I’ve got to go. I just found an injured hawk.”
“Oh—go save it,” Olivia says. “Call me after.”
“I will.”
I hang up, already moving toward the bird.
Up close, there’s no mistaking it. Red-tailed hawk. Broad chest, hooked beak, eyes so sharp my skin prickle. He’s upright, which is a relief. One wing droops at an angle.
“Hey. Easy.”
I spread my jacket slowly and step in from the side, careful not to tower over him. He tracks me anyway, head turning, pupils wide. When I’m close enough, I swing the jacket forward, aiming for his head.
He reacts fast, wings flaring, talons snapping forward. Pain slices across my forearm.
“Ah—okay,” I hiss.
I drop the jacket fully over him, pressing down just enough to block his vision.
He still fights, body beating hard against my ribs.
I reach under the fabric, find his legs, close my fingers carefully but firmly around the thick scales above his talons.
Another scrape burns across my wrist. Blood beads almost immediately.
Worth it.
I draw his wings in against his body, keeping clear of the injured side. He’s a juvenile, but the power in him is astonishing. When I hold still, he begins to calm.
“You’ll be okay,” I murmur. “I promise.”
“I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl. But I’m guessing boy. You look like a Hawke I know. Hawk with an e. Not the bird kind. The human kind. Tall. Handsome.”
He shifts, testing my hold, then settles again.
“Levon,” I decide. “I’m going to call you Levon.”
I carry him to the car, my forearm already throbbing, thin red lines rising beneath the skin.
In the trunk I still have one of my foam-lined prop cases.
I ease him inside, wrap the towel around his body to keep the wings contained, and lower the lid most of the way, just enough space for air and shadow.
There has to be a vet nearby. At least someone who handles wildlife.
And then it clicks.
Liam.
His clinic isn’t far. I looked it up once, late at night, for no reason I wanted to examine too closely. From memory, it sits just off the main road. I ease the car out, keeping my speed down.
There.
The sign comes into view and I know instantly why it stuck. The logo is a cartoon springer spaniel—liver color, long ears, bright eyes. It could pass for Alaska if you simplified her into ink and cheer.
The parking lot is half full. Through the glass doors I can already see movement. Inside, it’s a blur of ringing phones, a dog protesting from somewhere out of sight, a receptionist offering brisk reassurance to someone who’s clearly running late.
I step to the counter and put the box there.
“Hi—” I start, then stop when I see him. “Liam…” I catch myself. “I mean—Dr. Hunt.”
The focus in his eyes pulls me back to our previous encounters. At the Silver Paw Ball, he was immaculate in a tux. At the airport, behind the wheel of the Aston Martin, he was distant. Here, he’s different again.
“What have we here?” he asks, already coming around the desk.
“A red-tailed hawk,” I say.
He tosses me a sideway smile.
That’s really not helpful.
Victor storms back into my life and my equilibrium takes a hit. Liam the chauffeur turns out to be anything but, and I feel it. Then Red Fox—God, Red Fox, whoever he was—circling me in that room like he understood the exact distance between closeness and possession.
And now this. Liam again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s like I’m perpetually mid-cycle, regardless of the calendar.
Liam walks toward a waiting patient, a sleek Savannah cat peering from its carrier.
“You’re here for Toto’s FVRCP booster?” he asks the owner, slipping a finger through the carrier grate. The cat leans into it, pleased.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind if Dr. Rabada handles that today? I’ve got an emergency.”
“Of course.”
A woman with warm eyes and a competent manner introduces herself as Gloria Rabada and takes over.
“Come with me,” Liam says to me, lifting the box with Levon in it.
I follow him down the short corridor into one of the treatment rooms. The space is bright and orderly.
“You did the right thing keeping him dark,” he says, placing the box on the counter.
“I found him just outside Millbrook. Side of the road. You can call him Levon, though I doubt he cares.”
He opens the box slowly. “Levon?” he says, looking at me.
“Levon Hawke? Tall, blond, big eyes.”
He glances at the bird as though assessing whether any of those features apply.
“It’s a real person,” I add. “Son of Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman.”
Recognition flickers. “Ah. Ethan Hawke.”
The smile that follows is unfairly devastating.
For a second, I consider being concerned that he knows Ethan and not Levon. Generational tells and all that. But my pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with celebrity lineage.
I was a little giddy the first time I met him.
It should have faded by now. Maybe the Game altered something under the surface.
You don’t step into a room like that and walk out unscathed.
Or maybe it’s far less profound than that.
I just haven’t learned to be immune to handsome competence in a lab coat.
A nurse appears, then a tech follows, already pulling up equipment.
Liam nods and they move.
“Alright, Levon. Let’s have a look at you.”
I hover instinctively, then step back, unsure where I belong.
“Stay,” he says, without looking up. “You did everything right. I could use another set of hands.”
“Okay,” I say, pride taking over momentarily.
He studies the hawk, his fingers firm but careful, adjusting the towel, checking the injured side last. I notice how he mirrors what I did—how he protects the drooping wing without comment, without correcting me.
“Good call keeping him upright,” he says. “That likely saved us some complications.”
The nurse hands him an instrument. He takes it without breaking eye contact with the bird. The tech moves in, and Liam steps back to make space—then, unexpectedly, gestures me closer.
“Can you hold here?” he asks, guiding my hands with his own to show me where. Our movements fall into sync without effort.
He’s quiet again. But there’s something else underneath it—something held in check. Though I think it’s more my hyperactive mind that I observe it.
“Okay, we’re looking at a wing fracture,” he confirms. “Surgical, but manageable. The transport didn’t worsen it.” He glances at me. “That’s not luck. That’s care.”
I swallow. “I tried.”
“I know.”
“Can we get an X-ray?” he says, gesturing to the tech.
“Sure, Doc. Right away,” the tech replies.
“Then we’ll operate this afternoon,” Liam says.
I let out a breath of relief. I’m about to tell him that I’ll wait outside when his gaze drops to my arm.
A slight frown crosses his face, alert and assessing.
“Wait,” he says. “You’re hurt.”
I glance down. Thin lines of red have soaked through the cuff of my sleeve. “Ah—just scratches.”
He doesn’t smile this time.
“Let me see,” he says. “The bird did this, yeah?”
“Raptor being raptor.”
“When was your last tetanus shot?”
“Last year.”
Though right now tetanus feels less urgent than whatever neurological malfunction is currently underway in my head—and inconveniently, south of it.
“Good girl,” he says absently, already reaching for disinfectant. “Okay. Sit.”
I perch on the edge of the exam table, suddenly very aware of how close he is.
He rolls my sleeve up gently, not commenting on the marks, not asking why I hid them. He just gets to work, starting with cleaning each scratch. He’s at ease, as if taking care of me like this fits naturally into his day.
It stings but I don’t flinch.
“Did that hurt?”
“Ah, yeah. A little.”
His touch is firm, thorough in cleaning the torn skin, yet gentle with the wound. A thrum kicks against my ribs and I press it flat.
Wonderful. Apparently antiseptic and gauze count as chemistry when it’s him and me.
“This might swell a little,” he says. “But you’ll heal clean.”
I nod. “By the way, I notice the clinic logo is a springer.”
That pulls a real grin from him. Wide. Not the careful, vet-approved version. “Yeah. I’m a springer man. Had one since I could afford a pet. Never really moved on from the breed.”
“Purebred, not like Alaska?”
A flicker crosses his face, the grin loosening. “Yeah. But that doesn’t make Alaska less. That dog’s special.”
“She is.” I watch his hands as he smooths the bandage into place. “I adopted her on impulse. I wasn’t supposed to. My company was sinking at the time. Completely irresponsible decision.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“She was two. Big ears. No patience. I didn’t stand a chance.”
A low sound escapes him. “You’re not the kind who walks away from your own.”
I almost tell him I could photograph Alaska properly and make her his clinic mascot, give that cartoon spaniel some competition. It would be good branding and…too obvious. This isn’t a pitch meeting. Instead I say, “Maybe your dog and Alaska could have a play date sometime?”
Smooth, Helen. Why did I say that?
His hand stills for half a second before he secures the tape. He angles his face away, gathering himself. “Bella,” he says. “She died last year.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. She was my best one. Saved my life, actually.” He clears his throat. “I was down at the marina, fixing a problem with the engine on my boat. Thought I’d sorted it. I hadn’t.”
He stops to adjust the bandage on my arm.
“I slipped on the wet decking,” he continues. “Hit my head on the dock. Bella went ballistic. Wouldn’t stop barking until the dockmaster came. Stayed right beside me.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “She sounds extraordinary.”
“She was.” He presses his lips briefly, the only tell. Then he checks my arm again, professional mask sliding back into place. “You’re all set.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hunt.”
He meets my eyes. “Your first call was the correct one. Liam.”
“Okay. Thanks, Liam.”
This time his smile is easier. “Thank you,” he says. “For bringing Levon here.”
And then he moves seamlessly into the plan—surgery, recovery time, what to expect, the next steps.
“When he’s stable, I’d suggest Skyward for rehab,” he says. “Or we can arrange the transfer.”
“I’ll take him.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “My brother keeps an owl. Barney.”
“I remember. He mentioned it at the ball.”
“The bird stayed by choice,” he says. “The sanctuary tried. Release wasn’t an option either. He sulked until everyone realized the problem wasn’t captivity. It was separation. He refused to leave my brother like Air Supply’s ‘Without You.’”
I laugh, and he does too.
“These days, Barney runs Max’s house. All ten acres, full indoor access, and not a shred of shame. But that won’t apply to Levon,” he says, looking over as the hawk returns from X-ray. “If he heals, he flies. Anything else would be cruel.”
“I understand, Doc.”
The word seems to land differently than I expect. Something subtle and unreadable dawns in his expression.
When I leave, my arm is bandaged, my heart is light, and my feet barely touch the floor. For a few suspended minutes I’d almost forgotten Victor. Even Red Fox.
Liam Hunt is going to challenge my better judgment.
That much is clear.
He’s already lodged himself somewhere beneath my ribs, persistent and impossible to ignore. But I know better. I made a promise to Victor to start again. I haven’t mapped out the long term, but a promise still counts for something. Even when your pulse disagrees.