Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Callum
What exactly did I walk into?
Five faces were turned toward me, and for a moment, I considered walking straight back out the door. It would be easy enough. Turn around, get into my truck, and I'd be gone—back to the clinic, back to the familiar weight of work, back to being alone.
I forced myself to take a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.
No.
I'd driven here because Rosie had invited me. Because somewhere between fixing her irrigation system and rebatching soap at late at night, I'd started wanting things I'd convinced myself I didn't need. Connection. Belonging. Her.
I sat down in the space Emily had made for me, across from Rosie. Rosie, who was grinning like I'd just done something funny by showing up.
The brownie sat in the middle of the table on a small plate, chocolate still glossy.
One brownie. Six people. Apparently, I needed a sad story to earn it.
This is absurd.
“What are the rules?” I asked.
“Whoever makes the table feel the most tragic wins the last brownie,” Rosie said.
“Can't I have the last brownie just because I showed up?”
“No.” Rosie's smile widened, the kind that pulled at the corners of her eyes.
All right. Fine.
I looked at the brownie. Then at the five faces watching me with varying degrees of amusement.
A sad story. I had plenty of those.
Last week, I drove forty minutes to a farm outside of town.
The owner's dog was so overweight he could barely stand.
Spent the whole appointment explaining how the joint damage and the organ strain could lead to a shortened life expectancy.
His owner nodded the whole time, then offered the dog a piece of his sandwich as I left.
I had material.
I just had never once in my life voluntarily led with it.
Which meant I had no idea how to start. Cracking myself open in front of people I barely knew wasn't exactly my strong suit.
“My porch is rotting.”
Silence.
“Three of the boards are completely shot. I keep meaning to replace them, but there's always something else.” I glanced around the table. “I've been stepping over the same broken plank for two years.”
Emily stared at me. “That's your sad story?”
“Is that not good enough?”
“Cal.” Rosie gave me a look that landed somewhere between fond and exasperated.
Evan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Man, should have called me. We'd have fixed it in one afternoon.”
“It's not that I don't know how to fix it, I just don't have the time.”
“So call me. We own a construction company. Replacing porch boards is about as complicated as making toast.”
I looked at him. Then at Emily, who raised an eyebrow as if to say he's not wrong. Then at Rosie, who was watching me with that quiet expression she got sometimes, the one that saw too much.
Two years. I'd been stepping around the rotting plank for two years, and Evan Spencer could have fixed it in an afternoon. Probably would have done it the first winter if I'd just—
Not helpful. Moving on.
I cleared my throat.
“Fine. I have a better one,” I said.
They wanted something real. Something that cost something to say out loud.
The thing was, I knew how to work. I knew how to show up at 3 a.m. for a colicky horse, how to stay calm when everything was going wrong, how to keep moving forward when there was nothing left in the tank.
What I did not know was how to sit across a diner table and say here is a thing that hurt me without feeling like I'd handed someone a weapon they could wield against me.
But Rosie was watching me with that patient expression, and the table was quiet, and I'd driven twenty minutes because she'd asked.
“When I bought the practice,” I said, “I called my dad to tell him.”
I stared at the brownie, remembering that conversation. How excited I'd been. How sure he'd be proud.
“First thing he said was 'What's the revenue look like?' Then he wanted to know if I'd gotten the equipment appraised. If I'd negotiated the price down.” I looked up. “Never asked if I was happy. Never said congratulations. Just... numbers.”
Nobody jumped in to fill the silence.
“I was,” I added. “Happy. First time in a long time. And I didn't have anyone to share that with.”
The silence stretched another beat.
Then Rosie pushed the brownie across the table toward me.
“You win.”
“I haven't heard everyone's stories.”
“You win,” she said again, quieter this time.
I looked at the brownie, then at her. Something passed between us that I didn't have a name for yet.
Nate leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression somewhere between smug and entertained.
“I mean, technically.” He gestured between the two of us. “You both deserve it. Rosie's was pretty rough, too.”
“What was your story?” I asked.
“Oh.” She waved her hand. “Not important.”
“You were about to win.”
“And then you showed up with something better.”
“Rosie.”
“Cal.”
Emily pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. Abby had given up entirely and was grinning openly. Evan looked at Nate, who shrugged as if to say don't look at me, this is their thing.
I broke the brownie in half and put one piece in front of Rosie. She looked at it. Then at me. Then picked it up and took a bite without another word of protest, which told me more than she probably intended.
I ate my half. It was good. Dense, slightly bitter, exactly what I needed.
The conversation continued around us—Nate mentioning something about a house foundation, Evan pushing back on a timeline, and Emily cutting them both off with a counter-argument that ended the discussion in about thirty seconds.
Abby laughed. Rosie leaned her chin on her hand and listened with the easy attention of someone who genuinely liked being in a room with people.
Nobody asked me anything for a while, and I found I didn't mind.
The noise of the diner settled around me—the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, two teenagers in the next booth arguing over a menu, Frank humming something tuneless behind the counter.
I'd eaten here maybe a dozen times in four years, always alone, always with something to read.
It had never occurred to me that the same room could feel this different.
Frank brought coffee cups without asking, the way he did for people he'd decided belonged in his diner.
Rosie caught my eye across the table and smiled, small, private, like we were in on something together. I held her gaze for a moment too long, looking away before she could read whatever was on my face.
“So how does a guy end up running both a vet clinic and a dog rescue?” Evan asked, looking at me. “Is that like a natural extension of the vet thing, or...?”
“Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“I found a dog on the highway about a month after I bought the practice.” I wrapped both hands around my mug. “A stray, mixed-breed. Someone had hit him going too fast.”
Abby winced. Rosie set her coffee down.
“Both back legs were badly damaged. I could save one. The other one—” I shook my head. “Wasn't an option.”
“Oh no,” Rosie said.
“He did fine. Dogs don't sit around grieving a missing limb. He woke up from surgery, figured out the new situation in about forty-eight hours, and moved on.” I paused. “We could all learn something from that dog.”
Emily laughed softly. Rosie was watching me with her chin still propped on her hand.
“So I started calling around. Shelters in the county, a couple of rescues down toward Denver.” I turned the mug in my hands. “Nobody had room. And the ones that did said three legs made him harder to place.”
“That's awful,” Abby said.
“The barn was empty. Doc Hammond hadn't used it in years.” I shrugged. “I cleaned it up. Put down some fresh bedding, set up a crate. Just for him. Temporary.”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. It wasn't temporary?”
“I found a pregnant Lab two weeks later,” I said. “Six puppies.”
Evan laughed, short and surprised.
“I placed the puppies fast. The mother took longer.” I paused. “She stayed four months. By the time she got adopted, there were three more dogs in the barn.”
“And now?” Abby asked.
“I've placed over thirty dogs in the past four years.”
The table went quiet for a moment.
“Actually.” I glanced toward the counter, where Frank was refilling someone's coffee. “Frank found my most recent one. Right out back.”
Frank looked up at the sound of his name, eyebrows raised.
“The puppy,” I said. “Behind the dumpster.”
Frank set the coffee pot down and walked over, tucking his dish towel into his apron. “Scared little thing. So small.” He shook his head. “Skin and bones.”
“He's doing so much better now,” I said.
Frank nodded, something satisfied crossing his face. “Good. I'm glad you're the one taking care of him.” He glanced at Rosie. “Knew Doc Sterling would do right by him. He's good with animals.”
The casual trust in his voice caught me off guard. I didn't know what to do with it, so I just nodded.
“She named him,” I said, gesturing toward Rosie.
“Pudding,” Rosie announced, grinning. “His name is Pudding, and he's the most adorable thing I've ever seen in my entire life.”
Abby leaned forward, eyes bright. “Can we see pictures?”
“I don't have any,” Rosie said.
“I do.”
The words came out before I'd made a conscious decision to say them. I pulled out my phone, opened the album I'd made without fully admitting to myself that I'd made it, and slid it across the table to Rosie.
She picked it up. Went still.
“Cal.” Her voice dropped. “Cal.”
The first photo was Pudding asleep in the dog bed I'd dragged into the kitchen, his one floppy ear covering half his face. The second was him fighting with a couch cushion. The third was him sitting in a patch of morning sun on the kitchen floor, looking profoundly pleased with himself.
Rosie pressed her hand to her mouth.
“He's been staying in the house,” I said. “He needed quiet. After the surgery.”
“He's in your house.”
“It's temporary.”
Rosie turned the phone toward Abby without another word. Abby made a sound that brought the conversation at the far end of the table to a halt.