Chapter 8
Dean
Morning light filters through Callie's curtains, painting everything gold, and the first thing I see when I open my eyes is her.
Hair spread across the pillow like spilled honey. Face soft with sleep. One hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on my chest like she reached for me in the night and found me there.
I could get used to this view.
Hell, I already am used to it, and it's only been one night. That's probably a problem. I don't care.
Biscuit appears in the doorway, regarding me with the solemn judgment only a rescue mutt can deliver. His expression clearly says you're still here?
"Morning to you too, buddy," I whisper.
He huffs and disappears back down the hallway. I hear the click of dog nails on hardwood, then the jingle of tags as he settles into what I'm guessing is his bed in the living room.
At least one male in this house has standards.
Callie stirs against me, making a small sound that does unreasonable things to my chest. Her eyes flutter open, green and sleep-soft, and for a second she just looks at me like she's trying to remember if last night was real.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi yourself."
"You're still here."
"That a problem?"
"Biscuit seems to think so."
"Biscuit has opinions about everything, I'm guessing."
"Strong ones." She stretches, and the sheet slips lower, and I make a heroic effort to maintain eye contact like a gentleman. "What time is it?"
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. "Seven-thirty."
She bolts upright. "What?"
"Seven-thirty?"
"I have appointments starting at eight." She's already out of bed, grabbing clothes from her dresser. "Why didn't you set an alarm?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to be your alarm clock. And you have appointments on a Sunday morning?"
"Yes. Special circumstances. You distracted me from my entire evening routine, Mercer.
The least you could do is—" She stops, holding a bra in one hand and yesterday's jeans in the other, and looks at me.
Really looks at me, still sprawled in her bed, blanket pooled around my waist, probably grinning like an idiot.
Her expression softens. "Hi."
"You already said hi."
"I'm saying it again."
"Hi, Doc."
She throws the jeans at me. "Get dressed. I'm making coffee and then you're leaving so I can function like a normal human being."
"I'm very distracting, huh?"
"Shut up."
But she's smiling when she disappears into the bathroom, and I count that as a win.
I find my jeans—somehow ended up on the floor near the closet—and pull on yesterday's henley. It smells like her now, which is doing things to my brain I'm not prepared to analyze. I briefly consider stealing one of her sweatshirts just to see what she'd do.
The bathroom door opens and she emerges in fresh clothes, hair pulled back, looking like she didn't just roll out of bed with me.
"How do you do that?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Go from sleepy disaster to fully functional veterinarian in under ten minutes."
"Practice. Also, I keep emergency provisions in my bathroom for exactly this scenario."
"You have a lot of men sleeping over who make you late for work?"
She shoots me a look that could strip paint. "You're the first overnight guest Biscuit's had to judge in over a year, so don't get cocky."
"Too late. Already cocky."
"I noticed."
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and Callie leans against the counter, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Not regret. Not uncertainty. Something softer than that.
"So," she says.
"So."
"Last night happened."
"It did. Multiple times, if memory serves."
Her cheeks flush pink, and it's adorable. "Are we doing the awkward morning-after thing? Because I'm not great at that."
"What would the awkward morning-after thing involve?"
"Pretending we need to 'talk about what this means' and making promises we're not sure we can keep and generally ruining a perfectly good time with overthinking."
I cross the small kitchen and cage her against the counter, hands braced on either side of her hips. "I don't need to pretend anything. Last night was the best night I've had. I want more nights like it. Preferably consecutive."
"Consecutive," she repeats, like she's testing the word.
"Yeah. Like, all of them. Every night."
"That's ambitious."
"I'm an ambitious guy."
She reaches up and fixes my collar, which has somehow ended up half-tucked, half-untucked.
I'm done for. Completely gone. A woman fixes my collar and I'm ready to propose.
"I want that too," she says quietly. "But we should probably figure out the logistics before you start planning our lives together."
"Who says I'm planning our lives together?"
"You've got this look. Like you're mentally arranging furniture."
"I don't have a look."
"You absolutely have a look." The coffee maker beeps, and she ducks under my arm to pour two mugs. "Just black, right?"
She remembered. I mentioned it once, maybe twice in passing.
I'm keeping her.
"Right."
We drink coffee in her kitchen while the morning sun climbs higher, and it feels normal. Easy. Like we've been doing this for years instead of hours.
"I have to leave in five minutes," she says, glancing at her phone.
"I know."
"You should probably leave too. People talk in this town."
"Let them talk."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have Mrs. Patterson asking invasive questions during routine cat checkups."
"I have Javi asking invasive questions during routine truck maintenance. It's basically the same thing."
She sets down her mug and turns to face me. "So we're doing this? Actually doing this?"
"Unless you've changed your mind in the last three minutes."
"I haven't."
"Then yeah. We're doing this."
She kisses me—soft and sweet and tasting like coffee—and it takes everything I've got not to haul her back to the bedroom and make her late for all her appointments.
"Go," she says against my mouth.
"Going."
"Dean."
"What?"
"Your truck keys are still in your pocket. You haven't moved."
"I'm building willpower."
"Build it outside."
I steal one more kiss—deeper this time, thorough enough that she makes a small sound and grabs my shirt—and then I'm walking backward toward her front door like an idiot who can't stop looking at her.
"You're going to trip," she warns.
"Worth it."
"Text me later."
"Definitely texting you later. Might text you in five minutes."
"Please don't. I'll be elbow-deep in a Labrador with an ear infection."
"Sexy."
"Goodbye, Bingo."
The door shuts behind me, and I stand on her front porch smiling like a complete disaster while Biscuit watches me through the window with deep disapproval.
My phone buzzes before I even reach my truck.
Callie: You're still standing on my porch.
I look up. She's watching from her bedroom window, coffee mug in hand, smiling.
Me: Just admiring the view.
Callie: Get out of here before my neighbors start gossiping.
Me: Too late. Mrs. Kowalski is already peering through her blinds.
I wave at Mrs. Kowalski's house. The blinds snap shut.
Callie: YOU'RE THE WORST.
Me: You didn't think so last night.
Callie: I'm blocking your number.
Me: No you're not.
Callie: Probably not.
I'm still grinning when I pull into Ridgeway's gates twenty minutes later.
Brooks is on duty again, and his eyes go wide the second he sees me.
"Morning, sir," he says, way too cheerfully.
"Morning, Brooks."
"Nice night?"
"Fine, thanks."
"You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday."
I glance down. Same henley. Same jeans. Definitely still smell like her perfume and last night's terrible life choices.
Wait. No. Best life choices. Excellent life choices.
"Observant, Brooks."
"Just making conversation, sir." He's grinning like he just won the lottery. "Have a good day."
I make it to the barracks without running into anyone else, which is a minor miracle. Quick shower, fresh uniform, and I almost feel like a functional adult again.
The motor pool is busy when I arrive—routine maintenance day, which means every vehicle on base is either being worked on or waiting its turn. Javi's got his head under the hood of a Humvee, and he doesn't look up when I approach.
"Don't say it," I warn him.
"Say what?" He emerges, grease smudged across his cheek, eyes bright with malicious joy. "Say that you showed up looking way too happy for a Saturday morning? Or say that you didn't come back to the barracks last night? Or maybe say that you've got a hickey the size of Colorado on your neck?"
My hand flies to my neck. "I do not."
"Made you look." He tosses me a wrench. "But you do have that freshly-laid glow. It's disgusting."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You spent the night at the pretty vet's place."
"That's classified information."
"It's written all over your stupid happy face." He leans against the Humvee, arms crossed. "How was it?"
"None of your business."
"That good, huh?"
I lean against the Humvee next to him, avoiding eye contact. "She's amazing."
"Oh man. You've got it so bad, Bingo."
"I'm aware."
"Like, terminal. Stage four. No hope of recovery."
"Are you done?"
"Not even close." Javi grabs another tool, still grinning. "So what's the plan? You gonna wife her up? Move to Pine Valley permanently? Adopt three dogs and a cat?"
"It's been one night."
"And you're already planning the rest of your life."
He's not wrong. I've been mentally arranging furniture since I woke up in her bed.
"She's different," I say, because it's true and because Javi already knows.
"Different how?"
"She doesn't need me to be anything except what I am. She's not impressed by the uniform or the charm or any of the usual bullshit." I straighten up from the Humvee. "She sees me, you know? The actual me."
Javi's quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, the teasing edge is gone. "That's good, man. That's really good."
"Yeah."
"You gonna tell her about the re-enlistment thing?"
"Eventually."
"Eventually like when?"
"When I figure out what I'm doing."