Chapter 6 #2
The directness catches me off guard. She's looking at me with those green eyes, late afternoon light turning them almost gold, and there's no armor left. No ice. Just curiosity and warmth and something that looks like the beginning of trust.
"Yeah," I admit. "I was."
"How's that working out for you?"
I gesture at my soaked jeans, my bare chest, my dog who's now rolling happily in the grass like he didn't just destroy my dignity. "About as well as you'd expect."
She laughs again, softer this time. "For what it's worth, I'm not unimpressed."
"No?"
"Horrified, maybe. Entertained, definitely." She steps closer, reaching out to brush a strand of lake weed off my shoulder. Her fingers are warm against my skin. "But not unimpressed."
The touch lasts maybe two seconds. It feels longer.
We end up sitting on the dock as the sun sinks lower, my shirt spread out on the boards beside me, drying in what's left of the daylight.
Callie sits close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and we talk about nothing important—favorite movies, worst meals, the time Ranger ate an entire pizza off the counter and showed no remorse.
"An entire pizza?" she repeats, incredulous.
"The whole thing. Box and all. Well, most of the box. He left a few cardboard pieces as evidence."
"How is he not dead?"
"Belgian Malinois have iron stomachs and no sense of self-preservation." I lean back on my hands. "What about Biscuit? Any crimes against food?"
"Once he ate an entire stick of butter. Wrapper included." She shakes her head at the memory. "The vet—and yes, the irony of a vet taking her own dog to another vet is not lost on me—said he'd be fine. He was. Didn't even have the decency to feel sick afterward."
"Dogs are chaos agents."
"Adorable chaos agents."
"The worst kind."
She tells me more about Biscuit, the rescue mutt who hates thunderstorms and loves cheese, who sleeps on her bed and steals her socks and somehow became the best thing in her life after Denver.
I tell her about growing up at Iron Creek, about the dogs who raised me as much as my parents did—the German Shepherd who taught me patience, the stubborn Malinois who taught me that not everything can be controlled.
"Is that why you didn't go into the family business?" she asks. "Too much time around dogs as a kid?"
"Maybe." I watch the water lap against the dock pilings. "Or maybe I needed to figure out who I was outside of it first. Wade—my brother—he always knew he'd take over. Born for it. I wanted something that was just mine."
"Flying."
"Flying." I nod. "First time I went up, I knew. It's the only place my brain goes quiet, you know? Everything else falls away. Just me and the sky and the machine."
She's quiet for a moment. "I feel that way in surgery sometimes. When it's complicated, when everything has to go exactly right. The rest of the world disappears."
"Yeah." I turn to look at her. "Exactly like that."
We trade more stories as the sun continues its descent.
She tells me about vet school, the sleepless nights and the impossible exams and the professor who told her she didn't have what it takes.
I tell her about flight training, the first time I nearly washed out, the instructor who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.
By the time the sun hits the mountains, painting everything in shades of orange and pink, I'm mostly dry and completely gone.
"I should head back," Callie says, but she doesn't move.
"Probably."
"Special early appointments tomorrow."
"Makes sense."
Neither of us stands up.
Ranger's passed out on the shore, exhausted from his squirrel chase and subsequent betrayal. The lake has gone still, reflecting the sunset like glass. Somewhere across the water, a loon calls—a mournful, beautiful sound that echoes off the mountains.
"This was nice," Callie says quietly. "Despite the lake incident."
"Because of the lake incident."
She laughs. "You're never going to let me forget I laughed at you, are you?"
"Absolutely not. That laugh is going in my permanent memory."
"Great."
"It's a good laugh. You should do it more often."
She turns to look at me, something shifting in her expression. For a second I think she might say something—something real, something that changes things—but then she just shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips.
"We should probably go before it gets dark."
"Probably."
This time we actually stand. I pull on my still-damp shirt, grimacing at the cold fabric, and whistle for Ranger. He bounds over, refreshed from his nap and apparently ready for round two with any squirrels foolish enough to cross his path.
We walk back to the parking lot slowly, neither of us in any rush. The trail is quiet now, the families all gone home, just the sound of our footsteps and Ranger's panting and the evening birds starting their chorus.
At her car, Callie pauses with her keys in her hand.
"Same time next week?" The words are out before I can stop them.
She turns to look at me. I brace for the no, for the excuse, for the reminder that this is all professional and she doesn't date military and she's not interested in complications.
"Same time next week," she says instead.
Something in my chest loosens. Expands. I didn't realize how much I wanted her to say yes until she did.
"I'll try to keep Ranger away from the squirrels."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"Fair point." I open her car door for her, and she slides in. "Drive safe, Doc."
"Try not to fall into any more bodies of water."
"No guarantees."
She's smiling as she pulls away, and I stand in the parking lot watching her taillights disappear around the bend.
The drive back to base takes twenty minutes. I spend every one of them soaking wet, radio up, windows down, grinning like an absolute idiot.
My shirt is still damp. My boots are going to smell like lake water for a week. Ranger is passed out in the back seat, dreaming about squirrels he'll never catch.
And I don't care about any of it.
Javi's going to roast me forever when he finds out about this.
Worth it.