Chapter 3
Callie
Thursday afternoon, two days after Ranger’s clinic invasion, Sophie has that look—the one that means she's about to ask questions I don't want to answer—and sure enough, the first words out of her mouth are "So. The pilot."
"No."
"I didn't even ask anything yet."
"The answer is still no."
I keep my eyes firmly on the new releases shelf, scanning titles like my life depends on it.
The Reading Nook is supposed to be my refuge.
Exposed brick walls, shelves crammed with books, soft indie music floating from hidden speakers.
The smell of espresso and old paper. Sophie's ridiculous hand-lettered signs recommending "Books That Will Make You Ugly Cry" and "If You Liked That One Movie, Try These. "
It's my favorite place in Pine Valley, and right now it feels like a trap.
"Callie." Sophie appears at my elbow, black bob swinging, dark eyes bright with the particular glee of a best friend who's about to make my life difficult. "The whole town is talking about it."
"The whole town needs a hobby."
"You are the hobby. You and Captain Gorgeous and his runaway dog."
"His name is Ranger."
"The dog or the captain?"
"The dog." I pull a book off the shelf without looking at it. "I don't know the captain's name."
"Liar. It's Dean Mercer. Maggie told me."
Of course Maggie told her. Maggie tells everyone everything, wrapped in maternal concern and delivered with a side of unsolicited advice. The woman is a one-person intelligence network disguised as a diner owner.
"Maggie should mind her own business."
"Maggie said he couldn't stop talking about you." Sophie plucks the book from my hands and examines the cover. "She said he sat in his booth for an hour after the burger was gone, staring out the window like a lovesick golden retriever."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it though?" She holds up the book I grabbed. The cover features a shirtless man in a cowboy hat and the title Riding Hard. "Interesting choice for someone who claims she's not thinking about men."
I snatch it back and shove it onto the shelf. "I was looking for mysteries."
"That's three aisles over and you know it."
Behind the counter, Carla Nguyen—Sophie's part-time barista and full-time silent observer—doesn't even pretend she's not listening.
She's got a textbook open in front of her, but her eyes keep flicking up, tracking our conversation like it's better entertainment than whatever she's supposed to be studying.
"Don't you have customers to help?" I ask her.
Carla shrugs. "It's a slow afternoon. This is way more interesting than organic chemistry."
"I'm not interesting."
"You had a hot pilot chase his dog into your clinic and now you're in the romance section pretending you don't know what attraction feels like." Carla takes a sip of her own coffee, utterly unbothered. "That's objectively interesting."
Sophie points at her. "I'm giving you a raise."
"You can't afford to give me a raise."
"I'm giving you extra espresso shots, then."
I abandon the romance section—which I was not browsing intentionally—and head toward the café counter, hoping physical distance will end this conversation. It doesn't work. Sophie follows me like a stylish, persistent shadow.
"He's cute, right?" she presses. "Maggie described him and he sounds cute."
"He's... adequate."
"Adequate. Wow. That's the most enthusiastic endorsement you've given a man in all the years I've known you."
"I've endorsed men."
"Name one."
"The plumber who fixed my sink last month. I said he did adequate work."
Sophie stares at me. "That's not the same thing and you know it."
She's right. It's not the same thing. But admitting that means admitting other things—like the fact that I haven't stopped thinking about his eyes and a sheepish grin since yesterday afternoon.
Like the fact that I dreamed about flight suits and stupid call signs and woke up annoyed at my own subconscious.
"He's military," I say, as if that explains everything.
"So?"
"So, I don't date military."
"Since when?"
"Since always."
Sophie's expression softens. She knows enough about Tyler to recognize the wall when she sees it.
"Cal." Her voice drops, losing the teasing edge. "Not every guy in uniform is going to—"
"Can we not?" I grab a menu from the counter, even though I've memorized it. "I came here for coffee and books, not a therapy session."
"You came here because you knew I'd have information and you're dying to hear it, even though you're pretending you don't care."
"I don't care."
"Your left eye twitches when you lie. It's twitching right now."
I press my fingers to my eye. It's not twitching. Probably.
Carla slides a latte across the counter without being asked—oat milk, one pump vanilla, exactly how I always order it. "On the house," she says. "You look like you need it."
"I look fine."
"You look like someone who got four hours of sleep because she was up all night thinking about a pilot."
"I got six hours." Five, actually, but who's counting? "And I was up because my old dog, Biscuit, had a vomit situation. Not because of any pilot."
Sophie and Carla exchange a look that makes me want to scream.
"Okay." Sophie holds up her hands in surrender. "No more pilot talk. I promise."
"Thank you."
"Completely different subject."
"Great."
"Did you get the email from the county vet liaison?"
The question lands like a sucker punch. I take a long sip of my latte, buying time.
"What email?"
"Don't play dumb. I saw Dr. Reeves at the post office this morning. He mentioned he'd forwarded you a consultation request." Sophie's eyes are sparkling again, and I know—I know—what's coming. "From Ridgeway Air Force Base."
The coffee turns to cement in my stomach.
"It's about their K9 facilities," Sophie continues, clearly enjoying this. "They're upgrading the kennels and they need a veterinary consultant to review the specs. Good money, apparently. Interesting project."
"I haven't decided if I'm taking it."
"Why wouldn't you take it?"
Because taking it means going on base. Repeatedly. Walking through gates guarded by fresh-faced soldiers and navigating buildings full of people in uniform. Pretending that every uniform doesn't make my chest tight with memories I've spent two years trying to bury.
Because taking it means I might run into him.
"It's a lot of extra work," I say instead. "I've got a full patient load already."
"You've been complaining about wanting more challenging cases for months. And you literally have a degree in veterinary behavioral medicine. Military K9s are exactly your specialty."
"I didn't know you memorized my CV."
"I'm your best friend. I know everything about you." Sophie leans against the counter, studying me with the intensity of someone who's about to say something I won't like. "Including the fact that you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified. And not of the work."
Sophie's voice drops, losing the teasing edge.
"He's not Tyler."
My coffee mug stops halfway to my mouth. "I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to." Sophie's expression softens. "You've got that look. The one you had for six months after Denver."
The mug hits the counter harder than intended. "This is completely different."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, you're finding reasons to say no before anyone's even asked you a question."
I press my fingers to my temple. "He asked me to leave everything. Tyler asked me to leave everything."
"Tyler asked you to follow him and got pissed when you wanted your career to matter too. Then he ghosted you two days later like you'd never existed." Sophie leans closer. "Has Dean done any of that?"
"Not yet."
"So, you're punishing him for something Tyler did?"
The bell over the door chimes—a woman with a toddler on her hip wanders in, heading for the children's section, and I've never been more grateful for an interruption in my life.
"You should help her," I say.
"Carla can help her."
"Carla's studying."
"Carla's eavesdropping. There's a difference." But Sophie pushes off the counter, anyway, shooting me a look that says this conversation isn't over. "Think about the consultation. It would be good for you."
"I'll think about it."
"And think about the pilot."
"Sophie."
"What? I didn't say anything about the pilot. I said think about the pilot. That's a totally neutral statement."
She disappears into the stacks before I can respond, leaving me alone at the counter with my latte and my racing thoughts and Carla's knowing silence.
"For what it's worth," Carla says, turning a page in her textbook, "I think you should do it."
"Nobody asked you."
"The consultation," she clarifies. "Good money, interesting work, and..." She pauses, mouth quirking. "If you happen to run into a cute pilot, well, that's just a bonus."
"There's no bonus. There's no pilot. There's a professional opportunity that I'm considering on its professional merits."
"Sure." Carla takes another sip of coffee. "And I'm going to ace organic chemistry."
I take my latte to the worn leather armchair in the corner—my usual spot, away from the windows and the door and the eyes of the entire town—and pull out my phone.
The email is sitting in my inbox, right where Sophie said it would be. Official county seal. Professional language. A detailed description of the kennel upgrade project and a request for veterinary consultation on everything from ventilation systems to enrichment protocols.
It's exactly the kind of work I love. Complex, challenging, the intersection of animal welfare and practical design. The kind of project I dreamed about when I was slogging through vet school, telling myself all the sleepless nights would be worth it.
And it's on base.
Where he is.
He's cocky, I remind myself. Probably flirts with everyone. Probably forgot about me the second he walked out the door.
Except Maggie said he couldn't stop talking about me. And he showed up at my clinic after chasing his dog six blocks through downtown, out of breath and rumpled and genuinely embarrassed about his ridiculous call sign.
Bingo.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
He didn't act like someone who flirts with everyone. He acted like someone who was caught off guard. Someone who didn't know what to do with a woman who didn't immediately fall for his charm.
I'm not most people, I'd told him.
No. I don't think you are. The memory of his voice—quiet, almost surprised—sends heat crawling up my neck.
This is ridiculous. I'm a thirty-year-old professional with a thriving practice and a perfectly good life. I don't get flustered over men I've met once. I don't let blue-gray eyes and dimples derail my carefully constructed equilibrium.
I built this life on purpose. Pine Valley is safe. Predictable. Mine.
And Dean Mercer, with his ridiculous call sign and beautiful eyes, is threatening all of it.
I stare at the email.
The consultation is three meetings minimum, probably more. On-site assessments. Review sessions. Plenty of opportunities to run into Air Force personnel.
Plenty of opportunities to run into him.
And plenty of opportunities to prove to myself—and to Sophie, and to Carla, and to the entire gossiping population of Pine Valley—that I'm completely unaffected. That I can walk onto that base and do my job without my stupid heart doing stupid things.
That's the mature, professional approach. Take the job. Do excellent work. Ignore any pilots who happen to cross my path.
My thumb hovers over the reply button.
Sophie reappears with an armful of picture books and a smile that says she knows exactly what I'm doing. "Well?"
"I'm thinking."
"Think faster. The suspense is killing me."
"You're very invested in my career decisions."
"I'm invested in your happiness." She dumps the books on the counter for Carla to ring up. "Also, in gossip. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
The woman with the toddler approaches the register, and Sophie shifts into customer service mode—bright smile, easy chatter about age-appropriate reading levels and the upcoming story hour.
I watch her work, this woman who gave up a corporate job in Denver to run a bookstore in a town most people have never heard of. Who built her own life on her own terms and never once apologized for wanting something different.
Maybe that's what bravery looks like. Not big dramatic gestures, but small choices. Saying yes to opportunities even when they scare you.
Or maybe I'm just rationalizing because I want to see if his eyes are really that blue, or if the clinic lighting was playing tricks on me.
I type out a reply to the county liaison.
Dr. O'Connor is available to consult on the Ridgeway K9 facility project. Please send scheduling details at your earliest convenience.
Professional. Appropriate. Nothing remotely personal about it.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Sophie finishes with her customer and drifts back over, reading my expression with the ease of long friendship. "You said yes."
"I said yes to a work opportunity."
"Uh-huh."
"It has nothing to do with any pilots."
"Of course not."
"It's good money and interesting work and, like you said, exactly my area of expertise."
"All excellent reasons."
"Stop smiling like that."
"Like what?" Sophie's grin could power the entire town. "I'm just happy for your career advancement. Very professional of me."
Carla snorts from behind the counter.
I gather my things—bag, jacket, the latte I've barely touched—and head for the door. "I'm leaving now."
"Have fun on base!"
"It's not fun. It's work."
"Work can be fun. Especially when there are cute pilots involved."
"There are no—" I stop, because arguing with Sophie is a battle I stopped fighting years ago. "Goodbye, Sophie."
"Text me after your first meeting!"
"I will not."
"You definitely will."
The bell chimes as I push through the door, stepping out onto Main Street. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, the Rockies gleaming in the distance. A perfect Colorado day in a perfect small town where everyone knows about my business before I do.
My phone buzzes. Sophie, already texting.
Sophie: For the record, Maggie says he asked about you THREE times. Professional interest my ass.
I shove the phone in my pocket without responding.
But I don't delete the message either.