A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 2

Bailey

“I told you—I don’t want whatever you’re selling.”

A deep scowl on a pale, deeply lined face accompanies this proclamation. The look paired with her words almost have the power to make me feel ashamed, like I am a solicitor who knocked on her door with a clipboard selling magazine subscriptions.

Instead of what I actually am, which is her only granddaughter. The one who brought the pho she really loves—rare beef, no onions of any kind—and her favorite flowers, peonies—which are not in season right now so a lot more expensive. Next time, I tell myself, maybe I’ll bring her carnations.

I won’t. I know I won’t. Because she may not remember me, and she may not have been all that kind before she lost her ability to remember, but Gran is all I have.

She glowers at me like a queen enthroned among the pillows, the perfectly curled blond wig atop her head acting as her crown. Today, it’s the Classy Dolly Updo wig, one of seven Gran purchased from an Etsy store specializing in custom wigs modeled after Gran’s number one hero, Dolly Parton. Out of the bunch, my personal favorite is the Dolly Layered Bouffant wig. I tried it on once and almost felt like I could conquer the patriarchy or solve the literacy crisis. So, I get the appeal.

“It’s Bailey, your granddaughter.” I manage to dredge up a smile from somewhere. Feels like it was scraped off the concrete somewhere. “Your son Peter’s daughter.”

I am very careful not to use past tense when talking about my dad. It’s better when I don’t have to tell her again as though for the first time that he died a few years back. Better for us both.

And for the assisted living facility, which suffered five-hundred-forty-seven dollars’ worth of damage one of the times Gran found out (again) her son was dead. I’ve never seen someone rip down a curtain rod and wield it like a sledgehammer, but it was a sight to behold. Before three of the staff could stop her, she took out two windows, a television, and a set of Hummel figurines belonging to the woman rooming with her at the time. Who knew those things could be so expensive?

Now, Gran has her own room. Likely because of that incident. Or perhaps the one where she knocked Mr. Winters off his motorized scooter and stole it, making a break for the emergency exit.

When they called to tell me about it—complain, really, threatening to kick her out yet again—I had to put the phone on mute to smother my laugh. Not about possibly losing her spot. It was the mental image of Gran tooling down the road with the Dolly Teased Mullet Bangs wig—the only appropriate one for an assisted living jailbreak, IMHO—blowing in the wind as she fled.

Before Gran can decide she should drive me out by throwing whatever’s within reach, I hold out the soup and flowers. “I brought you pho and flowers. Are you hungry now?”

“I could eat a baby,” Gran says.

I wince. Where did that comparison come from? I decide I don’t want to know. Maybe she’s been watching Game of Thrones again. I haven’t seen the show or read the books, but eating babies sure sounds like it could fit into that world.

As I locate a tray and start arranging her soup, Gran sits up, straightening her pink pajama top. It’s silk and has pearl buttons down the front to match her earrings, probably. She tucks the paper napkin in the neck, as delicately as though it’s linen.

“Thank you,” she says primly.

I almost fall over because Gran is not big on thanks. She never was—even before her mind became more like a sieve with very large holes. She wasn’t the soft and cuddly grandma so many people seem to have but more the demanding and cuttingly critical kind. So, I’ll tuck away this thank you like a tiny gift.

But then she reaches for her bedside table and tries to hand me a five-dollar bill from her Vera Bradley coin purse. “Here’s your tip. That will be all.”

I sigh and take the bill. I’ll give it to Hannah when I leave. Later, she’ll slip it back into Gran’s wallet.

I was planning on a longer visit, but Gran, now convinced I’m a DoorDash delivery person, frowns and shoos me out with her chopsticks. I’m not in the mood to fight, so I wave goodbye, thank her for the tip, and make my way to the front desk where I replace Hannah filling out paperwork and listening to a true crime podcast. I’m grateful she hits pause because the host was saying something about decomp. I’m not squeamish, but I can’t handle dead body talk right now.

“Can you slip this back in my gran’s wallet?” I hold out the bill Gran gave me.

“She thought you were the DoorDash driver again?” Hannah’s smile is soft. She clasps her hands on the desk, flashing the rings on almost every finger. Hannah is the definition of bling. She’s even got some gold accents wound into the thick knot of braids on top of her head.

“Yep.” She still hasn’t taken the money, so I wave it at her. “Here.”

She shakes her head, her smile faltering. “Keep it.”

“I can’t take her money.” Even if I’m the one currently footing the majority of the bills for this place, everything not covered by her social security.

Hannah sighs, then pulls open a drawer and retrieves a sealed envelope with the facility’s return address stamped in place, my name scrawled across the front in messy script.

The pitying look in Hannah’s eyes makes dread pool in my belly, sour and heavy. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says.

I take the envelope with two fingers. “Is this going to ruin my day?”

Hannah’s sigh is bone-weary. The sound of someone overqualified and underpaid at a very difficult job. “Just … keep the five.”

She presses play again on her podcast, and I walk out the front doors with the envelope still held between two fingers as a deep voice discusses rigor mortis.

If freeclimbing were a thing I ever thought about doing, my grip on this letter would be tight enough to keep me hanging on the sheer face of a cliff. You’d never catch me climbing a cliff, but it sounds downright pleasant compared to dealing with this letter. Its cheerful font is a slap in the face, a direct contrast to the not-at-all cheerful threats it contains.

Threats, I tell you! Because the assisted living facility where my grandmother lives is clearly run by a terrorist cell.

Too bad I have no choice but to meet their demands—a twenty percent price increase to their already exorbitant monthly costs. Which insurance and all the governmental things only cover nominally to begin with.

Where am I going to get an extra twenty percent? What even is twenty percent of her current monthly payment? I need a calculator. What I would love is not to be the sole adult left to handle these details.

I often miss my parents with a deep, throbbing ache. Their voices, the sight of them bent over books or the laptop glow reflecting in Dad’s glasses. But in moments like this, when I have to be more adult than I feel qualified for, I miss them with a sharp tang of bitterness. Usually accompanied by a few moments of why me and poor little orphan Bailey before I tell myself to shut up and deal with the hand I’ve been dealt.

Which is: losing my parents to a car accident just months before college graduation and now being the sole caretaker for Gran on a nonexistent budget.

“Oh, Bailey …”

The moment I hear Beth, my most favorite and also most nosy coworker, sing-song my name, I shove the letter into my bra.

Just like the completely normal, fully functioning adult I am. One of the paper’s sharp corners immediately pokes delicate skin where no woman ever wants a paper cut, and I wince.

It’s the same knee-jerk reaction I would have had as a kid when caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A cookie jar would be a lot more fun—and tastier—than this missive. Why, exactly, do I feel the need to hide the letter?

And why did I shove it into my bra? That’s easier to answer—because scrubs don’t have pockets. Or, at least, mine don’t. They’re the bargain scrubs. No pockets. And made of a fabric only a stone’s throw from burlap. I really wish I could afford the softer, pocketed kind. Because as I turn to face Beth, I am rewarded with what is most definitely a paper cut on my nipple.

“Yes, Beth?” I echo in an equally melodic voice.

I know from the smug grin on her softly lined face exactly what she’s going to say. My heart, already racing a little, picks up the pace again, clearly going for a PR on its late afternoon sprint.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Beth says, clasping her hands over her chest in a gesture that somehow makes her look about fifty years younger, like an elementary school girl with a crush.

I can’t blame her. But I also won’t reward her teasing with an acknowledgment.

“Hot Puppy Guy,” Beth clarifies after a moment. Clearly, my response of staring blankly is not what she’s after.

Like there’s more than one man she teases me about.

“Oh, him.” I roll my eyes. But I also move to the door to see for myself. There’s a tiny window in the door separating the reception area of the shelter from this multipurpose room. I have to stand on tiptoes, but peeking through the glass, I confirm there is a veritable Viking bouncing on his toes with his flannel-clad back turned toward us.

Hot Puppy Guy. Also known by his real name, which Beth pointedly and forever pretends not to know: Eli.

I allow myself a moment to indulge in the view. Impossibly broad shoulders. Perfectly messy golden-blond hair. And if he were looking this way, I’d see blue eyes that somehow manage to be warm despite their deep blue color. He just needs a little bit longer hair—perhaps with some tiny braids—and an ax to complete the look. A leather skirt wouldn’t hurt.

Vikings do wear leather skirts, right? Or … kilts? Historical accuracy aside, I’m sticking with this mental image.

Eli’s face is the kind which could both launch a thousand ships or sell out whole product lines from a print ad. Sharp, chiseled features softened by full lips and a perpetual smile. The varying levels of facial hair he sports—from clean shaven to a trimmed beard—all look good and flatter his angular jawline.

He could probably shave his eyebrows and still rival the last twenty years’ worth of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.

Whatever he does for work, it must involve some kind of manual labor. Like pulling trees from the ground by their roots. Or carrying old ladies across the street. Building homes without the use of any electrical tools. And yet, despite what could be an imposing physique, Eli is a total softie. He’s sweet. Goofy. Thoughtful. He clocks almost as many hours visiting dogs as some of our volunteers do. Though they’re doing it to look good on resumes and Eli comes in just because he likes dogs, honestly.

Speaking of volunteers, several of the college girls are gathering at the front desk like flies to honey. Or is it bees to honey? Between the two insects, these women are definitely flies.

I remind myself that I have no right to feel protective. Eli is not my boyfriend, no matter what Beth says. Still. I’d like to take the push broom and sweep the volunteers right out the front door and right into traffic.

Okay, that feels a little too mean.

I’d just sweep them outside. If they happened to step in front of traffic, that would be on them.

Irrational jealousy rises in my chest as Katrina—the lord of the flies, if I’m sticking with my bad bug analogy (and I am)—does her best contortionist impression, bending herself practically in half over the top of the high reception counter. No doubt to get closer to Eli. While also giving him a clear view of her cleavage. And demonstrating her flexibility.

Like I said: flies.

Katrina says something I can’t hear. Eli jolts a little at the sight of her, then pointedly fixes his gaze in the opposite direction from the low-hanging boob fruit she’s dangling right in front of him. Right at a poster about the importance of spaying and neutering your pets.

No one ever said the ambience in an animal shelter was romantic.

“Hot Puppy Guy is a snack,” Beth says, and I do my best not to visibly cringe as I step away from the door.

“He has a name,” I remind her. “It’s Eli. And you can’t say things like that.”

“You can’t tell me not to.” Beth crosses her arms. “You’re being ageist by implying I’m too old to use the term snack. Or to appreciate a snackable”—I flinch again—“piece of man.”

“Beth, please. It’s as much about objectification as it is your terminology. He’s not a piece of anything. He’s a person.”

“I’m not objectifying your boyfriend. I’m appreciating his personhood. Like he’s a fine wine. Or a Van Gogh.”

“You are literally illustrating objectification right now. And, once again, Eli is not my boyfriend.”

But I sure wish he were.

Not that I’m even in the market for a relationship. I absolutely and categorically am not. Clearly, I need to have a talk with whatever part of my subconscious keeps forgetting that very relevant fact whenever Eli shows up. It’s probably the biological impulse to naturally select the biggest and strongest male for procreative purposes.

Procreation is something I need to think about even LESS than I think about having a boyfriend.

The cost of vet school means my focus needs to be work. No distractions. Definitely no boyfriends. Not even super-hot Viking men who love dogs.

I’m in my spinster era. Every twentysomething has one of those, right?

Aside from a lucky lotto win, saving up enough to minimize student loans will take years. Especially if I consider the letter still jammed in my bra. The one I keep forgetting about until a corner pokes me in a very sensitive area. Again.

I really need to pull this envelope out when Beth isn’t looking.

She claps her hands. “Stop drooling and go.”

I take another step away from the door. “I’m not drooling.”

Still. When Beth looks through the window, I wipe my chin. Just in case.

“Hm,” she says in a faux-thoughtful voice. “Looks like Katrina is trying to demonstrate yoga poses and⁠—”

“On second thought, I’ll head out there.”

Beth’s smile widens into a smug grin, and she tucks a white curl behind her ear. It immediately springs right back out. “That’s what I thought,” she says. “Maybe this time you could actually, I don’t know, talk to him about more than dogs.”

Doubtful. Not because I am incapable of carrying on conversations that don’t revolve around animals. But more because every time I’m around new or unfamiliar people—and I don’t consider people familiar unless we’ve been close friends for at least a year—my shy tendencies kick in hardcore. Forget tongue-tied; I become tongue-tangled.

My normally neat and organized thoughts get jumbled, like someone dumped an alphabetized file cabinet out on the floor then took a leaf blower to it.

“I make no promises.”

I hesitate by the door, and Beth gives me a hearty shove. “Get out there before Katrina takes her top off in a desperate attempt to steal your boyfriend.”

I don’t even bother arguing again that he’s not my boyfriend. Or that Katrina won’t take her top off. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her.

Taking a breath, which does nothing to slow my racing heart, I step through the door.

And there he is—his back still turned toward the reception desk. The three volunteers scatter at the sight of me. Totally busted in their ogling. I’m not their boss, exactly, but as a full-time employee, volunteers fall somewhat under my purview. Katrina answers the phone, which has probably been ringing since Eli walked in.

I approach him cautiously, stopping a few feet away to give his flannel-clad back an appreciative glance. Not an objectifying stare. If I were objectifying, I’d be looking at his butt. Backs are totally neutral zones.

“Here for more puppy therapy?” I ask, proud I’m not only able to get words out, but funny ones at that.

When Eli turns and I catch the expression on his face, I immediately regret my attempt at humor. Not funny. Not even a little.

Clearly, my words hit a little too close to home. Eli looks … terrible. I mean, relatively speaking. About as terrible as this man can look. Still very, very attractive, but his infectious smile has been replaced by a frown, and his blue eyes look haunted.

It actually hurts to see such a normally bright and sunny man look so sad.

Immediately, I want to fix it. Especially after sticking my foot so far into my mouth.

“Sorry—bad joke,” I say quietly, waving a hand and hoping he doesn’t see the flush creeping up my neck. “It’s just an expression. Studies have shown that being around dogs can cause a release of oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, and endorphins. So, it’s like a kind of therapy. Not that you need therapy. Or that there’s anything wrong with therapy. I saw a therapist for a while. Just for, you know, reasons.”

I clamp my mouth shut before any other words can possibly escape. My tongue tangle is in full effect, only instead of keeping me from talking, it’s indiscriminately spraying out words with the force and imprecision of a firehose.

The only thing that saves me from disappearing into a pit in the floor is Eli’s smile. A real one. Slow and warm like melted cheese—ew, no! Not cheese. Like melted caramel—better.

If my ridiculous babbling can lighten his mood and make this man smile, I’ll gladly contribute to the cause.

“Good to know,” he says, still smiling.

Good to know what? That I went to therapy? That being around dogs can help release a cocktail of happy brain chemicals? That I have a real problem with oversharing?

I swallow thickly, afraid to open my mouth again lest I confess something else. Like the fact that I still have an overdue book I checked out of Asheville’s public library seven years ago, or how I once threw a piece of ice across the cafeteria at a boy I liked and it left a welt on the back of his head.

In lieu of speaking, I extend my arm to the swinging door that leads to a hall of what we call our meet-and-greet rooms.

Eli nods, still looking amused I’m sure at my expense, and runs a hand through his floppy blond hair. If not a face model, Eli could totally be a hair model. Or whatever that official job title is. A shampoo spokesperson? Follicle featurer? A harbinger of hair?

Eli beats me to the door and holds it open for me. I refuse to swoon over his gentlemanly vibes, but as I brush past his broad chest, I do take a deep inhale of his scent.

I don’t know what exactly the different notes are, but the sum total ends up being masculine and heady without being overwhelming. Like a spicy-hot, manly cinnamon stick. Possibly the best smell in the world. Followed very distantly by the fresh bread smell when you walk into Subway. I have to shake off thoughts of what it would be like to stand next to Eli inside a Subway.

Eli plus freshly baked bread? Perfection.

I lead him to the first meet-and-greet room where people can see how they vibe with different potential pets. Our shelter has three of these rooms, all identical with an uncomfortable bench nailed to the wall, a few scattered toys, and a drain in the floor. Excited dogs often equal excited bladders. And it’s a whole lot easier to clean up this excitement when you can rinse it right down a drain.

Typically, we would walk potential adopters through the second door that leads to the kennels and let them pick a few dogs to meet one at a time. But Eli isn’t typical. For one, he’s made it clear he can’t adopt a dog. His job—whatever it is—requires he keep hours that aren’t conducive to pet ownership. So he’s said. Which is a shame, really. I’ve seen the longing in his eyes when he’s playing tug-of-war with a lab mix, the widening of his smile when a tiny mutt climbs in his lap, the way he brightens when I walk into the room with any dog at all. The man should have a dog if for no other reason than it lights him up inside.

I’ve never asked what he does that won’t allow him to care for a pet. I don’t ask him any questions. That would mean crossing over some invisible line I’ve set for myself. And fighting against the shyness holding my words hostage.

Technically, I shouldn’t let Eli keep coming in to hang out with the dogs.

Technically, I don’t care.

The second reason Eli isn’t like other people who come in is that he lets me pick the dogs for him. After his first time here, he refused to go in the kennels. He said it made him too sad to see all of them lined up and waiting for homes. I remember the way his eyes widened, how his gaze traveled down the long row of enclosures, at the noses pressed between bars. His swallow had been visible, throat bobbing in a way that made me sad at the same time as it made me want to remove a layer of clothing for fear of spontaneous combustion.

Eli forgoes the bench to sit on the floor cross-legged, like he’s a Kindergarten student waiting for reading time. Not a grown man whose frame is so large he makes this room look Lilliputian.

He makes me feel miniature as well, which is normally something that would bother me. After being teased mercilessly about my height—or lack thereof—when I was younger, I normally don’t like any reminder that I’m what my best friend, Shannon, calls a pocket person. Eli’s largeness, instead of making me feel smaller, somehow makes me feel safe.

Not that Eli has ever acted in some kind of overtly protective way toward me. Outside of my dreams, anyway.

Creepy as it might make me sound, Eli has starred in my dreams a few times.

Most notably a recent one in which he was some kind of centaur-unicorn with his handsome face and broad chest attached to the body of a purple horse. Complete with a pink mane, tail, and glittery horn.

That one was trippy and definitely in the PG-13 category. Me, riding on his back, gripping his mane between my fingers. The searing kiss he gave me after I slid down his flank.

Freud would have a field day with all of this.

But it’s my subconscious! I can’t control what my brain does when I’m sleeping! If mine wants to have sexy centaur-unicorn dreams featuring Eli, I can’t stop it and I’m certainly not going to judge.

My subconscious has good taste.

“Are you okay?”

I jump at Eli’s question, realizing I’ve been simply standing here, staring into space while thinking about kissing his centaur-unicorn counterpart.

I give my head a little shake. “Sorry. I’m just, um, thinking.”

About you shirtless and with a purple horse body.

“Must be some good thoughts.” Eli grins and, for the second time in the last few minutes, I blush. “Very good thoughts.”

I’ve never been more grateful that mindreading powers only exist in fiction. I’m sure if Eli knew about my dream version of him, he’d run screaming from the room. I’m worse than Beth and her snack comments and overt objectification!

Needing a breather—and to get on with what I’m supposed to be doing—I open the door leading to the back room, which connects to the kennels. “Any special requests today?”

Eli hesitates for a moment, and then the same lost look returns. The one he had in the lobby a few minutes ago. “Maybe … a dog who looks like they need a hug?”

If I didn’t already harbor a crush the size of the Appalachians, this comment would be enough to send me over the edge. I give him a quick nod and duck back into the kennels before I can do something like … well. I don’t know what I’d do.

Kiss him like the centaur-unicorn of my dreams, perhaps? Definitely a bad idea.

Ugh. Someone as good looking as Eli should really possess the personality of a cave troll just to balance out the scales. It’s a travesty of justice for someone so attractive to also be so kind. Completely unfair. Especially when I have no good defenses against him.

My crush didn’t even start because of Eli’s looks, though they certainly add to the whole package. It’s his energy that draws me. Aside from today, there’s a brightness to him, a sort of vibrant energy that emanates from him like each cell in his body is a tiny sun.

In this analogy, I’m a planet stuck in his orbit.

Whenever he comes in, just being near him lightens my mood. Not that I’m a super melancholy person. I’ve actually been accused of being too optimistic and believing the best about people—neither of which are bad things, in my opinion. But … there aren’t a lot of joys in my life right now. Eli coming in is pretty much the highlight of any week or month.

I realize this makes me sound super sad. Like my life is so empty that a random guy cheers me up when he comes in to see the dogs.

Let me emphasize this: when he comes to see the dogs. Not to see me.

I take a few moments in the kennels to collect myself. To give my twitterpated heart and overactive imagination a stern talking to.

Once I feel a little more grounded in reality, I walk past the kennels, looking for the dog who most needs a hug. The ones who have been here for a while and know the drill practically throw themselves at the door. Pick me! Pick me! their barks and effusive tail wags say.

In truth, all of them could use a hug. Our facility is a no-kill shelter, and it’s pretty great as far as shelters go. But it is old. And, like any nonprofit, funds are stretched thin. The facility would be much better if we had outdoor runs attached to the kennels so the dogs wouldn’t be cooped up inside except for twice daily walks.

“Which of you needs a hug from a hottie today?” I ask and am rewarded with a lot of enthusiastic butt wiggles and shrill, desperate barks.

But as I pace, my mind keeps circling back to one dog in particular. The one dog I probably shouldn’t bring out to meet someone. Still.

I leave the kennel for the main back room, where a small black dog trembles in the single row of small kennels. The latest stray Animal Control picked up isn’t adjusting well to the shelter. To put it mildly.

The vet had to sedate her so we could shave off the clumps of matted fur covering her body. She’s trembling, and every time a door slams or a dog barks from the kennel room, she jolts. I’ve grown so used to the steady barking, I almost don’t hear it anymore. But Doris practically had a panic attack when we walked her in there, so for the time being, we’re keeping her out here in the row of small kennels usually reserved for dogs recovering from surgery.

I’ve been talking to Doris all morning, attempting to win her over with kind words, which have been ignored, and dog treats, which have been left untouched in a small pile near the front of her kennel.

The look she gives me is pitiful. “Hey, girl,” I say. She gives the tiniest thump of her tail. Progress? “You definitely look like you need a hug. Do you want a hug? That’s the question.”

Her pointy ears flick back, almost like she’s saying, A hug, you say? Hard pass.

But I can’t shake this feeling. The same instinct that often helps me pair the right person with the right dog. Beth says I have a gift. I think it’s more that, after so many years of being the quiet person who’s hardly seen or heard, I have keenly developed powers of observation. I can quickly get a good sense about both humans and dogs. When people or families come in to adopt, often, I just know.

I bite my lip, debating as I look at Doris. Finally, I get one of our slip-on leashes and open her kennel, coaxing her out with a treat. Not one of the crunchy dog biscuits Doris has ignored, but one of the soft and chewy treats that stink like high heaven but must taste like doggy delicacy.

It works. Doris gingerly accepts this one from my fingers and allows me to slip the leash over her head—a good sign.

Slowly, giving her time to smell anything she wants to smell, I walk Doris toward the door, talking her through what we’re doing. I have a habit of talking to the dogs as though they have a very good grasp of English and at least a high school vocabulary.

“You’re a lucky girl today,” I tell her. “You’re going to meet Eli. Don’t tell anyone, but he’s my favorite. He said he wants a dog who looks like she needs a hug, but you know what? I think he needs a hug, Doris. I have this weird feeling like you two need to meet today. Just be yourself, okay? He can’t adopt a dog, so there’s no pressure to perform. It’s not a rejection when he doesn’t take you home. But also … don’t get too attached for the same reason.”

She gives me a look that either says she understands and agrees or she thinks I’m bananas for talking to a dog. “How about this—if you can cheer him up, I’ll give you an extra bonus treat, okay? The good kind.”

Her tail wags at the word treat. Perfect. We have an understanding.

With a last deep breath, I walk back into the meet-and-greet room with Doris, hoping my instincts are still on today.

Eli looks up, his shoulders more slumped and his expression darker than when I left the room. But he perks up immediately when he sees Doris, his face brightening and softening at the same time.

And dang it—I’ve never been jealous of a dog, but I sure am now. I’d like to be the one putting that look on his face. The one who walks into a room and has that kind of impact.

I gently slip the lead back over her head, setting her loose in the small room. “Eli, this is Doris. Doris, Eli. I’m not quite sure how this will go. She’s new and still getting the hang of things, so she might not …”

There’s no need to finish my sentence. With the kind of grin that could disarm nuclear warheads, Eli holds his arms out wide.

Doris, smart girl that she is, climbs right into his lap.

I can’t blame her. If Eli were opening those arms to me, I’d walk right into them too.

No, I’d run and take a flying leap.

Eli doesn’t move while Doris settles in his lap, as though sensing her need to take things at her own pace. Slowly, he lowers his arms, bracketing her in while still giving her plenty of space.

She sniffs one of his big hands, then the other. Eli waits, motionless but still smiling, letting Doris run the show. She tilts her head to look up at him. Then, slowly and tentatively, she stretches up and gives the blond scruff on his chin a solid lick.

Even his chuckle is soft, as though he knows a full laugh might scare Doris. “That’s a good girl,” he says.

My heart gives a solid thump. I ignore it. It thumps again, harder this time, and I tell it to kindly go back to its regularly scheduled programming.

With Eli’s focus on Doris, I am completely at liberty to stare at the impossibly attractive man before me. I remind myself of what I told Beth earlier—don’t objectify him—and then add my warning for Doris—don’t get too attached.

Doris, however, is listening about as well as my heart. After Eli passes her smell test (I could have told her that he would), she settles in on his lap and rolls over, presenting her belly for scratches.

Eli gently strokes her belly. “We’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Doris?” His smiling eyes meet mine. “And to think you doubted me.”

“It’s not that I doubted you⁠—”

He smirks. “Uh-huh.”

“I just wasn’t sure how it would go. Doris has had a rough time adjusting so far.”

Eli’s happy expression recedes, and he gazes down at Doris, who is now shamelessly butting her nose into Eli’s palm. “She has a sad story?”

His somber tone makes my chest tighten.

“As with most of the dogs who end up here, we don’t really know. From the looks of things, she’d been on her own for a long time. You can see how thin she is, and her fur was one big matted clump. It’s why we shaved her so short.”

“Well, I happen to think you look beautiful with a buzz cut, D. You’re a stunner. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Gah! My heart! It feels like each of Eli’s kind words is piercing me like an arrow, tipped not with poison but some kind of love potion. There is a cupid laughing maniacally somewhere. I just know it.

Doris curls into a ball and closes her eyes as Eli scratches behind her ears. He gives me a smug look, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.

I hold up both hands. “I stand corrected.”

“Never doubt me again,” he says.

I clear my throat, feeling a weight in his words I know he doesn’t intend. “Never.”

Normally, when people visit with dogs, I’ll pop in and out of the room, checking to make sure things are going okay but giving them plenty of space. Trading out one dog for another as people try to get a sense for what one might be the best fit.

With Eli, I’ve started spending more time in the room. Mostly because he invites conversation, pushing me into feeling almost comfortable around him. Also because I just like being around him.

I stay today because it’s almost closing time, and there’s not much else to do. And because Eli’s dampened mood when he came in has me concerned. Even now, with his smiles and his teasing, he’s not at full strength. Like someone has been messing with his dimmer switch, powering him down to a fraction of his normal glow.

I slide down the wall, sitting directly across from him with my knees pulled to my chest. As he snuggles Doris closer, Eli’s gaze falls to my forearm, which is freshly marked up thanks to a feline encounter earlier in the day.

He frowns. “You’re scratched up again. Cats really don’t like you, do they?”

I glance down at the angry red marks. “I really do try. But no—the cats have clearly sent out an all-feline bulletin about me. It’s a conspiracy. They’re plotting my demise.”

Eli laughs, and pleasure thrums through me, a warm slide of happiness. “How’s that going to work if you plan to be a vet? Can you have a canine specialty or a no-cats policy?”

Sighing, I say, “I’ll have to replace a way to peacefully coexist with cats.”

“Ah. The suck-it-up-buttercup plan.”

“Pretty much.”

“I have faith in you.” Eli’s blue eyes twinkle—almost but not quite at full strength—as he shoots a smile my way. It sends a chain reaction through my body, this one on the cellular level, a molecular game of telephone delivering what I’m sure is the very wrong message.

This is not the first time Eli has flirted with me. He also flirts with Beth, who’s twice his age. And with Cyn, the part-time vet tech, who’s almost Beth’s age and seemingly incapable of smiling.

But Eli never flirts with Katrina and the other young and pretty volunteers and staff who fawn all over him.

In other words, Eli only flirts with the women who aren’t really viable options.

I’m so, so glad I fall into the flirt-because-I’m-safe category.

“How are the vet school applications going?” Eli methodically strokes Doris’s back, and she sighs like she’s having the best sleep of her life. Maybe she is.

I make a face. “Fine.”

Better if I could work up the nerve to ask the vet who works here part of the week for a recommendation. But Dr. Evie is highly intimidating. There’s a reason she’s better known as Dr. Evil around the shelter.

“I’ll bet you aced your test,” he says. “Which one was it again? The MCAT or the LSAT?”

“It was the GRE. And I did well.” When he raises his eyebrows, I grin and drop my gaze to my hands. “Fine. I did ace it.”

Which is good because those tests are not cheap, and I didn’t want to pay to take it again.

“I knew you would.” He sounds almost proud, which makes me feel ridiculously happy.

“You couldn’t know that. You barely know me.”

“Or maybe I know you better than you think, smart girl.”

Now, there’s a thought that just about breaks my brain.

I’m always shocked Eli remembers or seems interested in any of my life’s details. He has a way of coaxing information out of me during his visits the way I coaxed Doris out of her kennel with soft words and a treat.

I feel a sudden stab of guilt, realizing I don’t do the same for him. Not because I’m not interested. But it’s just hard for me. Even when he makes it look so easy.

My shyness is a product of both nature and nurture. My parents were academics and researchers, Dad in literature and Mom in biochemistry. Both the very stereotype of the absent-minded professor, better with books and beakers than people.

Though they absolutely adored me, their only and perhaps accidental daughter, my childhood was a little too quiet and solitary. They encouraged independent study, independent thinking, and just, well, being independent.

The sad part is that I’ve always been drawn to people. I remember aching to have the kind of childhood I read about or saw in movies where kids gathered in groups to play outside. Sleepovers. Parties. Riding bicycles and coming home at dusk, happily exhausted and smelling like damp leaves and fresh air. Our house was way outside of Asheville with beautiful scenery and some land, but no neighbors nearby. No possibility of easy friends.

I think my parents assumed I was like them: self-sufficient and nerdy enough to let books be stand-ins for other people. While I am bookish and admittedly nerdy, I’ve also realized I fit into the little discussed category of people known as shy extroverts. As in, I get energy from being around people. But I am in no way outgoing or talkative or socially brave the way people typically imagine extroverts.

Especially because, after a childhood spent cloistered up in our house or in the university campus library or my parents’ offices, I don’t always know what to say or how to interact normally when I’m around people. The whole tongue-tangle thing.

It’s a challenge.

But I’m tired of shyness being my excuse. Eli asks me questions even though we barely know each other. I can do the same for him.

What to ask?

Now that I’m trying to drum up my courage, all rational thought has left my brain. My fingertips tingle, and my pulse is racing. I’m suddenly reminded of the letter in my bra when I shift and it crinkles.

Thankfully, Eli doesn’t hear it. His shoulders are slumped again, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows as one of his big hands slowly strokes Doris’s back. I can still read the sadness in the uncharacteristic stillness of a man who usually possesses border-collie-energy mixed with golden-retriever-happiness.

I think of Beth’s challenge to talk to him about something besides dogs, and I have a little argument with myself.

Talk to him!

No, thanks.

Just ask if he’s okay.

He’s fine.

He’s not fine! Look at him!

Yes, he is fine. Fiiiine.

Not THAT kind of fine.

Eli sighs, as if to prove the mouthy part of my subconscious correct. He might be fine-looking. But he is not fine inside.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Is everything okay? You seem a little down today.”

My voice is hardly more than a whisper, but Eli’s head snaps up like I shouted. I grit my teeth and force myself to hold his gaze. No sense being a coward now.

He offers up a lopsided smile, but his eyes are still sad. “That obvious, huh?”

I offer him a shaky smile. Shaky because adrenaline is surging through me. Sad what a tiny bit of bravery can take out of me.

“You’re flying at half-mast,” I tell him, then hope it wasn’t a terrible thing to say.

But Eli chuckles, looking somehow pleased. Maybe that I’m talking to him like this? Hopefully he hasn’t noticed the lopsided way our conversations have always gone. But how could he not have? He’s always the one talking, and I’m always the one answering.

I feel anxiety trying to take me down in a death spiral, and I focus for a moment on slowing my thoughts, slowing my heartbeat, slowing my self-judgment. It works. Slightly.

“I’ve been better.” Eli drops his gaze and his smile, smoothing his hands over Doris again and again.

It takes a few long moments for me to land on an appropriate follow-up question. At least, I hope it’s appropriate.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Eli’s reaction to my question this time is slower but somehow almost as dramatic. No—more dramatic. It’s as though my offer struck him like a stone between the eyes, stunning him.

His hands stop moving, resting lightly on Doris’s dark shaved fur. His shoulders stiffen. Almost comically slow, he lifts his head to look at me again. His expression seems dazed, almost bordering on surprise.

He opens and closes his mouth several times, then he tilts his head to the side, as though assessing me.

Is he…? Wait. Is he actually considering taking me up on my offer to help? Is there something I could really do for him?

My body’s response to this wildly exciting yet completely terrifying prospect is to start sweating profusely under my scrubs. Behind my ribs, a rave is going on, with my pounding heart providing the bass.

I force myself to swallow and remind myself to breathe as Eli’s blue eyes track over my face. He seems to arrive at some conclusion, because he relaxes with a soft sigh and an even softer smile.

“Unfortunately, Bailey, I don’t think you can help.”

“Oh.”

Disappointment, sharp and bitter, lands with surprising force. At the same time, the blow is softened by a bright ribbon of pleasure curling through me. He knows my name! A tiny thing, really, especially when he’s been coming in for months. But we hardly ever address each other.

When did I even tell him my name? The very first time he came in?

And he remembers?

It makes me double down on my bravery, which is starting to feel a whole lot more like recklessness.

I shake my head and cross my arms. This presses the edge of the letter against my skin. I ignore it.

“Try me,” I say, before the courage fueled by stubbornness dissipates. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I could—or would—help.”

He tilts his head, and even under the harsh lights, his hair glows gold. “Why?”

I’m not expecting the question. Or his piercing gaze. “Why … do I want to help you?”

He nods, and I look away, my gaze landing on a poster about feline leukemia. A very sad cat stares back. I search for an answer that doesn’t include confessing my schoolgirl crush.

“You don’t even know what I need help with. And to quote you from earlier,” he adds, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though I’m not looking, “you barely know me.”

Again, the gentleness in his voice softens his words. But hearing the echo of what I said moments ago stings a little. Mostly because it’s true. Especially compared to how much information he’s managed to get out of me over these past six months or so of visits.

But while I may not know much about him, from the time I have spent with him, I do feel I know who he is. Maybe I’m fuzzy on the details like job, hobbies, and personal history, but I know Eli’s character. You can observe a lot from watching a person interact with animals.

An unfamiliar desperation to prove Eli wrong claws its way through me. Paired with a palpable, aching need to fix whatever it is that’s bringing him down. A desire to be the exact and only person who can help.

I lick my lips, which are suddenly almost as dry as my mouth. “I know enough,” I tell him. “I know you’re kind. I know you care about animals, which says a lot about a person.”

“Who doesn’t love dogs?” he asks, scoffing a little.

“You’d be surprised. But you don’t just love the easy ones or the pretty ones.” I tilt my chin toward Doris. “She’s hardly let anyone near her, yet she’s curled up in your lap. Most people want puppies or dogs who look like they might be purebred. The good-looking ones and the young ones. The easy ones. But not you. You love them all. Even—maybe especially—the ones no one else does. You have a big heart, Eli. A good heart.”

And … now I’ve done it.

I gathered my courage, attempted to partake in normal conversation, and then gave the equivalent of a villain’s monologue.

Except instead of revealing the motivations for my evil plot, I’ve likely just revealed way too much about how I feel about him.

“So, yeah,” I add quickly. “I want to help because you’re a good guy.”

So many more reasons. But this is the only safe one.

Eli is quiet for a long moment. The kind of pause that feels like the pulling back of the ocean before a tsunami. I briefly consider bolting from the room, claiming some emergency. A fire! An escaped dog! My period! I force myself to sit still and stay silent.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Eli says, finally. “And the kind words. But I still don’t think this is something you can help with.”

He stops, then meets and holds my gaze with an intensity that freezes me in place.

“That is,” he continues, those blue eyes blazing, “unless you want to marry me.”