Chapter 12
George: Black or charcoal for a suit?
My eyes read the message twice, double-checking the sender to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind.
Rosie: You are aware of who you’re texting, right?
George: Or is navy blue a better option?
I frowned at the screen as I wandered down the hall of the clinic to the treatment room where I had been administering medicine to a pissed-off Chihuahua, who squealed and growled like I was severing a limb.
The entire morning had gone on a swift decline the moment I stepped through the glass doors of the clinic, and Lawrence—my boss—accosted me about taking some of my leave, a conversation I’d been avoiding for the past month.
Since I started working for him four years ago, I hadn’t taken any holidays and barely any paid sick leave.
For a few reasons. The biggest one was that I liked my job, even on the days when I had all kinds of bodily fluids sprayed at me.
Or the time I’d nearly been mauled by an Alsatian who hated having its claws clipped.
Even when my feet were so tired they barely switched gears in my car on the drive home, I wouldn’t change it.
Being around animals and having a job where more often than not, you got to save, treat, and heal creatures whose only desire on earth is to receive love and safety…
nothing in the world could top that feeling.
That’s the reason I told myself I was averse to taking any leave.
The other reason was so pathetic that I had the urge to vomit whenever I thought about it.
I never wanted to go on holiday alone.
Fallon was my usual holiday buddy. But she had been so busy this past year with the book and Oliver that it never seemed like the right time to suggest we go away.
Lawrence had apparently had enough of me fobbing off his attempts to catch me at a good time and hauled me into his office, demanding I take some holiday or he would fire me.
The threat was empty. I knew that. Lawrence knew that. The green sofa in the corner of his office knew that. His voice dipped, taking on a note of desperation that I rarely heard from him.
‘Please take your leave. You’re becoming a liability, Rosie.’ I’d clapped a hand over my heart and batted my eyelashes at him, even though his words stung.
‘You say the sweetest things to me.’ Then, I’d waltzed out of the office and started on my rounds. But it left a bad taste in my mouth all day.
By the time my phone buzzed with George’s odd message, my tether was close to snapping.
Rosie: Neither.
George: Unhelpful. Sweetheart, we need to work on your text flirting.
Rosie: I flirt just fine over text.
George: If I told you I had a really great time the other night, how would you respond?
Rosie: Ditto.
I waited a few seconds, watching those three dots appear and disappear on the screen.
George: Christ.
Rosie: Is this part of your teaching-me-to-date plan?
George: Yes, texting is a big part of a new relationship.
Whatever gremlin was dancing the can-can in my stomach at reading those words needed to get a fucking hold of themselves.
Rosie: Since this isn’t a proper relationship, I don’t need to bother.
It took a while for him to respond.
George: Humour me.
Irritation licked up my spine.
Rosie: Not today. I’ve had a Dachshund with explosive diarrhoea shit all down my scrubs. Flirting is not a priority right now.
I sent it and threw my phone on the bench cluttered with paper and charts. Flopping down into the office chair, I ran a hand down my face, taking a deep breath. Every few seconds, my gaze bounced back to my phone, which hadn’t buzzed in at least five minutes.
Shit.
I was in a bad mood, but that wasn’t his fault.
It also wasn’t his fault that last night I had made myself come thinking of him.
His voice in my ear, telling me unholy things that had my thighs itching to clench tightly together.
Yet, at the same time, I desperately wanted it to be his fault.
Maybe then I could make sense of this attraction.
This attraction that could never, and would never, go anywhere.
I was seconds away from grabbing the offending device and typing out a vague apology when it vibrated. The speed at which I picked it up should have been a warning sign.
George: Are you free over lunch? I could use your help with something.
Not in the mood to do any more digging, I told him yes, and he sent me an address of where to meet him.
The next hour flew by quickly. By the time I was heading out the door, waving a quick goodbye to Jean at the front desk, I was running late.
I typed the address he’d given me into my GPS. My eyes narrowed when the destination popped up on my screen. That can’t be right. After triple-checking his text, I gave up questioning and started walking since it was only five minutes away.
Faded blue lettering above a building that looked like it had seen better days caught my eye. Glass windows proudly displayed mannequins dressed in outfits from the eighties. Behind them, I could see racks and racks of clothes of all mismatched colours zig-zagging across the floor.
A thrift shop. He’d asked me to meet him at a fucking thrift shop. My fresh scrubs were bunched under my thick coat, and my hair was pulled back into a tight bun.
I was about to call George in a fit of pique when I saw a familiar, hulking figure move between the rows of clothes.
Pushing open the glass doors, I was instantly greeted with the stench of stale coffee and musty clothes.
A bell tinkled above my head. A girl who couldn’t have been older than seventeen was leaning on the counter, scrolling through her phone, and without looking up, said in a bored voice, ‘Hi, welcome to Second Threads.’
My lips parted to respond when a shadow cast over my face. George stood in front of me, and a lump the size of a grapefruit lodged itself in my throat.
Don’t think about last night. The light layer of makeup I usually wore to work would do nothing to hide the blush staining my cheeks as I tried to tamp down the delectably dirty thoughts running through my head.
A thick red flannel coat draped over his broad shoulders and dark jeans moulded themselves to his tree-trunkesque legs. Smudges of dirt and other stains decorated the material. He didn’t care.
Some part of me liked that—liked that he didn’t give a fuck about other people’s opinions.
I tilted my head, shoving my arms deep into my coat pockets to stop them from doing something stupid like reach out and touch him. ‘Have you had a lobotomy?’
With all the seriousness in the world, he replied, ‘Not recently. I’ve got one scheduled for next Thursday, though.’
I bit back a smile at how easily he quipped back.
Looking around me at a complete loss, I asked, ‘What are we doing in a thrift shop?’
He held up a finger. ‘Lesson one: Small talk.’ And then walked away. I gaped at his retreating form incredulously as he headed to the back of the store to the formal wear section. Lesson one?
When my brain had caught up, I followed him. ‘What in the frickety-fracking-fuck-buckets is going on right now?’
He trawled through the suits hanging haphazardly on hangers, eyes determined as he rifled through the options. ‘How’s work going?’
Okay, he had definitely lost his mind. ‘It’s fine.’ I folded my arms over my chest, trying not to get dizzy with the amount of flips this conversation had taken. ‘What are we doing?’
For a split second, his eyes snapped back to mine. ‘Talking.’
He pulled a black suit out from the rack and held it up. Whatever he saw made the creases in the corner of his eyes crinkle even deeper. He put it back with a sigh.
‘This is where you ask about my day,’ he said, carrying on looking, sparing a glance at me. If I hadn’t been nearly struck dumb by the odd turn my day had taken, I might not have noticed the soft tug at the corner of his lips.
He arched a brow, waiting for me to ask. Suppressing the overwhelming urge to shunt this rack of clothes straight into his hard body, I ground out, ‘How was your day?’
He smiled widely. ‘Good, thanks for asking.’
‘This is painful.’
‘I agree. You’re making it much harder than it should be.’
My mouth opened in protest. When he rifled through the hangers again, frowning at the various types of suits on display and not finding what he was looking for, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. Lines of stress creased his brow, and something in me softened.
‘What are we doing here, George?’
‘How’s this?’ He held up a grey suit against his chest, ignoring my question.
I scanned the wrinkled material. ‘If you’re interviewing for a job at a bank, perfect. If you want to look like you have an ounce of personality, horrendous.’
His brow furrowed at the suit in his hand. ‘Fuck.’ He put it back, dejected.
‘Is this what you needed my help with?’ I eyed the clothes and his apparent ineptitude around fashion.
He heaved a sigh. ‘Yes. Figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. Start your very first lesson on dating and get your opinion on a suit.’
‘And I thought men couldn’t multitask.’
The same smile that sent a shot of heat through my core curled at his lips. ‘That’s very stereotypical of you, sweetheart. Men can do a great many things.’
I couldn’t stop myself from scoffing. ‘Sure they can.’ This was apparently how I was spending my lunch break, so I stopped fighting it.
Blowing out a long breath, I stepped closer and swatted his chest to get him to move out of the way.
With a curious expression, he let me take over.
Stepping back and peering over my shoulder, watching me quickly flit through all the limited options.
My forehead wrinkled. ‘I don’t think any of these will fit you.’ The sizes were all over the place, ranging from extra small to five XL. George was somewhere in between. Tall, broad, and entirely too close for me to think clearly. My hands grazed over a thick black suit and pulled it out.