Page 6 of Can’t Help Growling in Love (Harmony Glen #9)

My colleagues are just as wrecked as I am, so I don’t complain. I pass Tia, who’s sitting on a bench, drinking a can of synthetic AB-positive, her favorite blood type. Her eyes are closed, but she pats my back when I collapse next to her.

“Rough one today.” She stands and tosses the can in the recycling bin. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I dress myself, wishing I could crash on one of the bunk beds for twenty minutes, but I can’t. “Could have been worse, though. I’m glad the guy made it.”

We’d had to resuscitate a forty-eight-year-old human mill worker who’d lost a hand and a lot of blood while his wife and three teenage daughters cried outside the OR, their sobs piercing through the door.

Dr. Mishra sewed up the stump, and we gave him several bags of blood, then pumped him full of antibiotics to fight any infection that might set in.

“I checked on him ten minutes ago,” Tia tells me. “His blood smelled fine. I’m pretty sure he’ll make it.”

I manage a tired smile. “That’s good.”

For some reason, my eyes well with tears. If we couldn’t save him, those girls would have been left without a father. I’m usually better at keeping my shit together, but today just hit me hard.

Tia senses I’m crumbling, so she squeezes me in a tight hug, and I cling to her, my breathing choppy.

But I pull myself back from the brink and grit my teeth against the thought that if anything happened to me, I would have no one crying for me in the hallway.

Well, my parents might eventually make it to Harmony Glen if things were really dire, but they’re not the sobbing type.

“We should go out,” Tia says. “You, me, maybe Natalie, remember I mentioned her to you? She’s a gorgon and makes handcrafted jewelry as a side hustle. Pretty cool stuff.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “That sounds nice. Let’s find a day that would work with our schedule.”

I don’t know where I’ll find the time and the money for a girls’ night out, but I need one, desperately. I need a day of not worrying over expenses or house repairs or saving someone’s life.

In a lull between patients and rounds, I take a break and return to my locker to find another message from Asher waiting for me.

What’s it like, working at the ER?

I let out a bark of laughter, surprising Barbara, the cleaning lady emptying the trashcan. I give her an apologetic smile, then refocus my attention on the phone.

Of all the days to ask this question…

Most days, I love it. I’ve never regretted choosing this career. But today was hard. Nobody died, but sometimes, it’s just as bad to see a person lose their ability to work or take care of their family .

I close my eyes for a second, then type some more.

I rode past the radio station today. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not a crazy stalker, I swear. If you never want to talk to me again, just block me, I’ll understand .

I send the message off, a ball of regret sitting in my stomach. Then I remember something else and add another line of text for Asher.

Missed the S&S chapter today. Hope it was a fun one.

I return to work, and the trajectory of my night turns upward.

I help deliver a baby, a tiny bean who will no doubt grow up to be well over six feet if his grizzly shifter parents are anything to go by.

I wouldn’t have been called in if it wasn’t for an emergency C-section that the OB/GYN team on call had to perform tonight.

The Harmony Glen Hospital is small, so we all pitch in when needed.

I stare with gratitude at the wriggling baby as I help measure and weigh him, then wrap him in a swaddle and hand him over to his mother.

“Good luck,” I murmur at the door as I’m leaving. “I hope you get some rest.”

It’s nights like this that are both the hardest and the most rewarding. The emotional roller coaster takes it out of me, and the thought of returning home to my cold, empty house is almost enough to make me consider just crashing here for a few hours.

I open my locker to change, and find another message waiting.

I’ve never had a stalker before. Makes me feel important. Here.

Pasted below is a link to a download site. I hover my thumb over it, then reconsider.

My mother taught me never to open strange links. (This is a lie. She would absolutely click on it without checking.) What is this?

Asher replies immediately, as if he’s been waiting for my answer.

Today’s chapter of S&S .

My heart leaps at the thoughtful gesture. But I can’t resist sending off another text.

How do I know I’m talking to the real Asher Summers? You could be impersonating him. This could be a phishing scam to get to my bank account information (spoiler alert: don’t waste your time if that’s the case).

I shove my phone into my jacket pocket and stroll out into the parking lot with a renewed sense of optimism. It’s not flirting, exactly, this texting thing with Asher, but it has me feeling giddy all the same.

My phone pings as I’m navigating morning traffic on Lakeview Avenue, but I don’t stop to check my messages.

Instead, I make myself wait, stretching out the anticipation.

I even lock my bike on my covered porch, put away my helmet, and start the electric kettle for a cup of tea before I give in to temptation and open the message.

It’s a photo—but not the selfie I was hoping for.

Asher sent me a shot of what must be his recording studio at the station, featuring a battered copy of Sense and Sensibility , a pair of professional headphones, a complicated microphone, and a Monster Tunes coffee mug.

But there’s also the reflection of the man behind the camera in the studio’s glass window—enough to get the general idea of his bulky shoulders and short-cropped hair, but not much more.

Tease . I grin at my phone like a fool and tap the link to download the chapter he sent me.