asked, ignoring me and glaring at Ian.
“No, sir,” Ian said again. He looked over at me, his eyes smiling.
“Ian’s the new vet, Noah. I’m doing some work for him,” I said, “so get your panties out of a twist and give me your leg.” He handed it over, still glaring at Ian. “Okay, Noah, where’s the sleeve?” I asked, referring to the silicone sock that helped hold the prosthetic in place.
“Fuck if I know,” he grumbled. “I knew I forgot something.”
“It’s a lot more comfortable if you use it,” I said.
“How do you know? Did you cut off your leg to test it out?”
“No, but I may cut off your other one if you don’t stop growling, Grampy dear,” I said. “Ian, come upstairs with me, or Noah will eat you alive.”
Ian followed me up the stairs. A mistake. Ladies, never have a man follow you upstairs, as there’s just no way to hide the junk in the trunk, if you will. I raced up so as to minimize Ian’s view. “My grandfather is only that irritable if he’s in pain,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“No apology needed,” he answered.
Ian waited on the catwalk as I went into Noah’s room to find another silicone sock. Then I zipped down the hall into my own room to get my laptop and, let’s be honest, check my hair. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.
My heart was beating a little fast, and not just because I’d hurtled up the stairs. Also, my cheeks were hot. I was … hmm. A little horny. Yanking off my fur-covered jeans, I opened my crowded closet and surveyed the contents. A skirt, definitely. I had fab legs. But not too flirty, because yes, I was working. Choosing a darling little pink and green plaid A-line with fun pleats at the bottom, I pulled it on, topped it with a sleeveless green silk tank, grabbed a matching cardigan, then dug out my bottle-green suede peep-toe shoes with three-inch heels.
“I’ll be right out,” I called to Ian as I kicked some laundry under the bed. Not, of course, that Ian would come in here. But it was strange to have him there, right outside my bedroom. Thrilling, even. They say that men think of sex every ten seconds or something. Maybe Ian was having thoughts about me … naughty thoughts. Dirty thoughts. Long, hot, steamy thoughts of tumbling onto my big, comfortable bed, kissing my neck, moving lower, his hand working its way …
Hellooo? Anyone home? Michelle Obama said. Right! I was doing a freelance job. Still, I went over to my laptop and typed a quick message to Annie. Am going out to dinner with vet. Business only, but am having sex thoughts. I figured she’d be proud. Then closed the cover, stuffed the laptop into its case, dashed on a little MAC lip gloss, fluffed my hair, then went to the door and opened it.
“All set,” I said.
Ian looked up, his eyes most definitely checking out my legs. Great choice, that cute little skirt! Indeed, he was staring.
“Is that a Morelock chair?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling modestly. “I ran track in … what?”
“Your rocking chair. Do you know who made it?”
It was perhaps the first time I hadn’t been thrilled to discuss my beloved rocking chair. “Um … yes. It’s a Morelock chair.” I paused. “Good eye, Ian.”
“Can I see it?”
I blushed. He was coming into my bedroom! Betty Boop squealed and fluttered her eyelashes. To admire the furniture, the First Lady said pointedly. “Sure,” I mumbled.
He came in, not even glancing at my inviting bed. Hmmph. Well. The chair was special, and for some reason, I was glad Ian recognized that. It was, after all, my prize possession, the first thing I’d try to save in case of fire, right after Bowie and Noah (though Noah was pushing it these days).
“Where’d you find it?” he asked, not touching the chair and, bless him, not asking to sit in it.
“Actually,” I murmured, staring at the chair myself, “Mr. Morelock gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”
Ian looked at me in surprise. “You knew him?”
“I only met him once, but Noah knew him,” I said. “In fact, this is the last chair he ever made.”
Ian nodded once. “Well,” I said. “We should go, I guess, before it gets too late.” I paused. “We can walk, if you want. It’s not far.”
“Sure,” Ian said.
“Do you want Angie to come in? Noah won’t mind. He loves dogs.”
“Thank you. That would be great.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, we were walking down the twisting street. The sun was setting, and birds sang in the trees. Ten yards away, the Trout River rushed past, shushing and murmuring its river song. It was almost romantic, save for the fact that my laptop banged into my hip every other step and Ian didn’t say a word the whole way there. Luckily, Elements wasn’t far, which was good, because these shoes, while adorable, were also vices of death.
“Callie Grey!” a masculine voice purred the minute I opened the door. “My God, look at your legs, they’re proof of a loving God.”
Ian looked confused. I beamed and kissed the owner of the voice.
Annie’s brother, Dave, was part owner and manager of Elements, and of course I loved him madly. He looked like an Alaskan crab fisherman, rough and unshaven and so, so alpha, but unlike my crushes in Deadliest Catch, he knew how to dress.
“So who’s this?” Dave asked, scanning Ian up and down and putting a proprietary arm around my shoulders. “I’m Dave, Callie’s friend and protector, half owner of this fine establishment.” Dave stuck out his hand, which Ian shook.
“Hello,” he said.
“Ian, this is my friend, Dave. Dave, Ian McFarland, our town’s new vet. I’m helping him out on a project, so can we have a booth? I have my laptop.”
“Of course! Right this way.” Dave led us through Elements, which, like Noah’s place, had once been part of the mill industry, meaning it had uneven floors, brick walls and lots of character.
Various River Rats were assembled in the bar (big surprise there), and a chorus arose as we passed. “Callie! Hey, girl! How’s Noah?”
I waved and grinned. “Hi, gang! Can’t talk now, don’t want to, have better company than you bozos!”
“Attagirl!”
“Take me with you,” Shaunee Cole called, lifting her martini glass.
“Marry me, Callie!” boomed Jake Pelletier, who’d actually made the trip to the altar three times thus far … he was only forty, so we figured he had six or seven marriages left in him.
“Come on, Prom Queen,” Dave urged, rolling his eyes. “Ian, she’s still the most popular girl in school.” He waved us to our booth, which was not far from the bar and right under the
