Chapter 3
Colter Callahan prided himself on grace under pressure, but even he had limits, and most of them involved livestock with ego issues. Unfortunately, it was Monday, and Mondays in Bridlewood had a nasty habit of turning ordinary days into stories he never wanted to explain.
“Colter, brace yourself,” Irma, his receptionist, said. “Exam room three is Mrs. Dobbins and her fainting goat.”
“She was just here Wednesday.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said.
Irma ran the front office the way some people ran entire towns, which made sense, considering she’d lived in this one her entire life and knew everyone’s business whether they wanted her to or not.
She was in her early sixties, quick-witted, sharp-eyed, and spoke with a no-nonsense Midwestern cadence that could make “hon” sound like both a blessing and a warning.
She dressed like she’d stepped out of the movie Annie Get Your Gun—crisp button-downs tucked into high-waisted trousers, a tooled leather belt, sturdy boots, and the occasional neck scarf knotted with intention.
Nothing about her was accidental. She typed fast, judged faster, and had an uncanny ability to cut through bullshit with one carefully practiced look and a dry remark that bordered somewhere between kindness and command.
If Colter was the heart of the clinic, Irma was the spine. The spine that occasionally threatened to walk out and leave the heart to fend for itself.
“Wants its horns sharpened,” Irma went on. “Says he loses confidence if they’re dull.”
Colter had been a veterinarian long enough to recognize the signs of a chaotic morning, and Irma’s tone carried that specific brand of cheer that usually meant she was about to ruin his week.
He looked over the counter at a stack of waiting files. “What else?”
“Room five. Mr. Hargrove with a male iguana. Wants it neutered.”
“He wants me to neuter his iguana? And the goat wants sharpened horns?”
“Yes, and yes. And don’t look at me like this is normal. You’re the vet, this is your clinic now, which means it’s your problem.”
He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the patient list like maybe it would rearrange itself into dogs and cats instead of weaponized reptiles and insecure goats.
“I love animals, but these people are trying to kill me before I even touch the scalpel.”
Irma snapped her fingers, sharp as a whip. “You worry too much. Rule Number One: vet the animals. Rule number two: survive the owners. Now go before the iguana starts molting.”
Rule Number Three, unofficial and unspoken: never ask Irma to clarify Rule Number One or Two. She'd already moved on to the next crisis.
Colter rubbed his temples as he grabbed both files. Up first? Carl the Iguana.
He walked into the room and blinked at the four-foot-long male iguana wearing a camo-colored harness and leash was draped across the exam table. The creature’s yellow eyes blinked slowly, full of reptilian contempt.
Mr. Hargrove stood up and gave a tip of his cowboy hat. Earnest as a preacher, he announced, “I want him neutered. He’s been aggressive. Mating season, you know?”
A reptile with seasonal testosterone issues. Colter nodded slowly, waiting for the punchline.
“But I still need him to look tough,” the man added. “He sits on my porch and keeps the porch pirates away.”
“So, neuter him but keep him scary.”
“If you neuter him, he won’t lose his edge, right? He’ll still look scary? You won’t sand down his claws or anything?”
Colter forced a laugh. “No, neutering doesn’t turn him into a plush toy, and those claws won’t be touched. He’ll still be terrifying enough to keep the mailman on his toes.”
Hargrove grinned, completely satisfied, while Colter silently considered switching careers to taxidermy. He swore the iguana smirked at him.
A guard iguana. A neutered, scary, plush-adjacent guard iguana. This was his life now.
“Irma will set up the appointment,” Colter said, setting the iguana back on the floor. It meandered over to its owner and curled up at Mr. Hargroves’s feet like a fucking lapdog.
Muttering under his breath about the fainting goat waiting for him in exam room three. He started toward the door but froze mid-step.
Someone was behind the front desk, someone who was not Irma.
His stride cut off as his brain stalled. The stranger moved with precision—answering phones, sorting papers, typing, all with the efficiency of someone who had been running the place for years. She was comfortable and competent, commanding that front desk like she belonged.
Then she turned and—
“Fuck me,” he said under his breath, his heart thumping loudly, sending sharp knocks against his ribs.
It was her.
The woman from Granny’s Grocer and Grain.
The woman who had looked him dead in the eye over a box of tampons and thrown verbal punches without missing a beat.
The one with the teal lace he had absolutely tried not to think about and failed.
The one who had lodged herself in his mind against his will.
And the one who was a too-young, too innocent looking, single mom.
Because of his brothers, he’d started referring to her as Dream Girl in his fantasies, which he’d had several since meeting her last week.
Sometimes in teal. Sometimes in nothing. But always screaming out his name.
A grown man, thirty-three years old, reduced to a teenager with a crush and, apparently, no self-control whatsoever.
His stomach tightened and his pulse climbed. Suddenly, the iguana didn’t seem like the most dangerous creature in the clinic.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder while she transferred a call and slid a form into a labeled tray like she had been running this entire operation for years.
She ended the call cleanly, set the handset down, and glanced up at him, cool and composed as if she was expecting him. “Oh, hey.”
His throat felt raw and his palms slid to his hips like he needed somewhere to anchor his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Running your front office like a boss.”
“No, I mean what are you doing here? In my place of work?”
“Dropping off my HR papers to Irma. But when I got here, no one was at the desk. So, I figured why not save the day.”
That was not an answer he was looking for.
“I never got your name.”
“Sutton. I’m your new intern.”
His brain tripped over itself. When he said yes to a new vet tech, he did not know what he expected—but it sure as hell was not a young woman, let alone this woman.
A pocket-sized wet dream with the exaggerated curves of America Ferrera, and the eyes—oh, the eyes—were all Grace Kelly: cool, luminous, and unreadable, like they were holding trade secrets.
Her red hair was darker than her daughter’s, more auburn than light red. But she had the same smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, which stood out against her soft, light complexion.
Those ocean-blue eyes flicked up, catching him staring. She offered the faintest polite smile, one that was nothing and yet punched straight through his rib cage.
Intriguing enough to be a problem, he thought. The kind of intriguing that set off alarms everywhere a man ought to have common sense.
She was a single mom and he didn’t do single moms. Ever. He had a personal rulebook for dating and number one was: do not get attached to someone with a small human who deserves more stability than a guy who sometimes ate beef jerky for dinner because dishes felt emotional.
Rule number two: do not fantasize about your new employee.
Rule number three: definitely do not fantasize about your new employee in teal.
Rule number four (added roughly eight seconds ago): stop making rules, because clearly they weren't sticking.
Not only was she his new vet tech, she was also his apprentice. And young—too young for a guy in his thirties. A guy whose future babies would all be a four-legged and covered in fur.
“Names, Colter.”
“I know.”
He leaned against the counter because his legs needed something solid. His voice scraped lower than intended, and he fought the urge to ran a hand through his hair like a schoolboy caught staring at the prettiest girl in class.
“Right. The Market. If I’d known you were my new intern, I wouldn’t have—”
“Commented on my melons?”
Christ. He felt his face heat like she had opened an oven door in front of him. “Or asked for your number.”
“That’s okay. We both know you weren’t going to use it.”
One point, Dream Girl. If they kept score, and apparently, they were keeping score now, she was up one to nothing before nine a.m.
If his face had been hot before, now it was surface-of-the-sun with embarrassment because she was right—he had no intentions of calling. Well, he had—then he’d reminded himself of the two-foot-tall fairy with a mustache.
“Let’s just start over. I’m Sutton, your new intern. You must be Dr. Callahan. I’m excited to work under you. I mean, for you.”
Her voice cracked on the correction, and a flicker of satisfaction slid through him because she was not as unshakable as she pretended—meaning he was not the only one tongue-tied. Point to Colter.
“Welcome.” He cleared his throat and jabbed a thumb toward the direction of the exam room three. “If you don’t mind handling the phone until Irma gets back?”
“Not at all. I might as well jump in.”
Her confidence was ridiculous—ridiculously sexy.
“Thanks. I’ve got a goat waiting for a horn sharpening. If I don’t go, it might pass out again, and then I’ll be responsible for the mess.”
She laughed softly, and his chest tightened at the sound. It was warm honey and a dare all at once. “Good luck with that. I’ll let you get to it.”
He nodded and turned just as the front door banged open. A frantic woman burst inside, pushing a dolly large enough to haul lumber. Except instead of lumber, a miniature horse stood trembling on the platform, legs locked, eyes rolling white. Tears streamed down the woman’s face.
“Martha,” Colter said, addressing one of his most loyal customers, rushing over. His body kicked into instinct, everything else falling away. “What’s wrong?”