Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Rhys
Noah leaves the film dressing room looking stunning.Not polished into someone else, just… refined. Like someone has taken the chaos and smoothed the edges without taking anything away.
It suits him.
I’m not sure I like how much it suits him, but it's a nice change from scrubs and whatever he called the puppy-farm uniform.
I lead him to my Land-Rover and climb in. As the engine roars to life, I nearly break the no talking about dogs rule by reminding him… twice.
He’s quiet beside me, hands folded in his lap as if he’s afraid to touch anything.
Not relaxed. Not yet.
That’s good.
It will make our destination much more impressive.
It isn't far into town, where I've booked a last-minute table at the Flash d’oeuvre.
I rarely come here, but it's sparkly and that will be perfect to distract Noah from his puppies.
I bite back words of reassurance about them.
My staff are working around the clock to manage what he handled alone.
But it's easier to work hard when there are cute puppies involved.
Everyone loves being overrun with cute puppies.
It's a universal quality in animal care that even I can't completely deny.
“This place is… wow.” Noah gasps as he climbs out of the car and stares up at the restaurant.
I watch him take it in; the lights, the glass, the quiet wealth, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
This isn’t his world.
Then again… neither am I.
“The inside is pretty good too,” I urge, spurring his legs in the right direction.
We sat at a central table. Not my usual style of sitting in the corner so I can watch everyone better than they can watch me. No, this table is a statement I didn't want to make. This isn’t a casual dinner table.
This is a date table. This is a date.
Not a reward or a kindness. A decision.
One I don’t remember making… but here we are, anyway.
And we’ve been recognized.
A few nearby tables have started whispering softly.
“They're all looking,” Noah whispers, hiding behind his menu. “The amazing Dr Rhys Calder on a dinner not-date with a mysterious stranger.”
“Mysterious stranger? You mean the infamous dog boy.”
“Dog boy? Makes me sound like a stray.”
“Grubby tramp stumbles into prestigious veterinary practice and blows whistle on dog cruelty.”
“I was the one running the dog cruelty,” he croaks. “They must all hate me.”
“You've stopped watching Follow the Vet.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“You should…” My recommendation to follow his story on TV comes to an abrupt halt as a server leans in conspiratorially close and whispers.
“I'm sorry to bother you, but we've had several customers question whether it would be appropriate to ask for autographs.”
“As long as they respect our privacy while we're eating, I have no objections. You?” I double check with Noah, who gives a nervous agreement while flushing a little pink.
“Thank you, sirs.”
Less than five minutes later, a couple walked over arm in arm. “I'm so sorry, but seeing you here is just a dream come true.” The woman gushes. “We don't have anything better than a serviette, but could you sign it, please? If you don't mind.”
“I can go one better.” I pull out a photo card from my jacket and sign it for them.
“Could we get both of you to sign, please?” She turns the card hopefully towards Noah.
“Uh, me?”
“Oh, yes. I absolutely love how well you know all those dogs. And Toffee's puppies. How do you tell them apart?”
“I name them based on characteristics, so whatever they remind me of is their name.”
“So Toffee is her color? That is so clever.”
Noah writes his name under mine, and it's adorable. The N and h look fine, but the o and a loop together in a squiggle that looks suspiciously like a little heart.
“So you don't hate me for working on the farm?”
“You were a hero. An inspiration to all of us.”
Noah signs another card, still looking slightly bewildered.
He still looks surprised every time someone smiles at him, as if he’s waiting for it to turn.
For the moment they realize what he was and take it back. They don’t.
Like someone who expected the world to hate him and hasn’t quite worked out that it doesn’t. We sign cards for another two minutes until our first course arrives and everyone gives us peace to enjoy our food.
“They don't hate me,” Noah mutters. “They actually like me.”
He says it quietly, as if it might break if he says it too loudly.
Like it's something fragile. Borrowed. Temporary.
I’ve seen men beg for their lives with more certainty than that.
I'm not sure anyone could hate him.
Not even the room full of strangers staring at him.
And for once, I realize I’m not watching the room.
Not tracking exits. Not measuring threats.
I’m watching him.