Page 6 of Happily Evan After (Dog Tags #5)

chapter

six

Marley

The only thing that would make today worse is if I had the puppy vomit in my hair rather than just on my scrubs. Poor little guy had gotten into a bag of charcoal and then became a canine volcano.

Thus is the glamorous life of a small-town veterinarian.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I would much rather spend copious amounts of time with the four-legged than any of the other two-legged and talking variety.

And I especially love this time of day, when the appointments are over, the chaos has quieted, and I’m (mostly) alone.

I’ve already sent all the techs home for the day, and it’s just me in the back finishing up some patient notes, and Dylan, our receptionist, is out front.

He could have already gone home, but he never lets me stay here alone.

His sweet Texas boy manners won’t let him leave me on my own.

I think back to my earlier text exchange with Sergeant Cartwright. As if learning how to bandage wounds is the same thing. Not to mention that canine anatomy is very different than human.

I’ll have to revisit my previous conversation with Dane Whitmore, the owner of the dog sanctuary.

Initially agreeing to hand over the vaccinations to the guys who work there made sense.

It was a partnership I didn’t see coming when I first moved to Saddle Creek nearly six months ago.

The former military unit turned dog rescuers have created something really special out at their facility and land.

Especially as they grow in popularity and continue to take in more and more dogs.

It’s not that I can’t drive out there myself to administer the vaccinations, but that would consume a good chunk of my time.

So when Dane contacted me to tell me that one of his buddies who had moved here to run the sanctuary with him had been the team—unit—whatever they’re called, the one who had some medical training.

Needless to say, at the time, it had seemed like a great solution for both of us.

He might not know anything specifically about canine anatomy, but at least he’ll know his way around a syringe. That’s truly the most difficult part. But then, when I texted him and he was talking about the keg and the fridge, he just did not seem like he was taking the issue seriously at all.

And, yes, I know I tend to take everything seriously. Still, it’s my attention to detail that makes me a great vet, and I refuse to apologize for that.

My eye catches on the framed ultrasound picture sitting on my desk. I smile, looking at the grainy image. My hand falls to my bump and I pat the life growing inside me. If you had told me last year this time that I’d be pregnant, I would have laughed in your face.

All it takes is that one time. Isn’t that what everyone tells teenagers?

Evidently, it applies to thirty-something single women, too. And technically, it could have been one of three times we’d done it that night. Though admittedly, it was all in one night, so I’m not sure any of those details matter.

I don’t look pregnant to most people yet because I’m plus- sized. I already had a soft belly. But I know the difference. I can feel the difference, inside and out. Maybe I just look fatter to other people, but I know that a life is nestled inside me, growing and changing every day.

The number of times his handsome face has come to mind over the last few months is embarrassing. Especially since I have no way of contacting him to tell him, ‘hey, you’re gonna be a dad.’

How would that even go anyways?

Remember me? Your one-night stand? We didn’t exchange names or contact information, but it would seem that despite using condoms, you knocked me up!

I blow out a breath. Some of the blonde fuzzies currently surrounding my face flutter. Today’s humidity has my pale locks frizzed to the extreme. I’m pretty sure it looks more like my head is covered in yellow cotton candy than actual hair.

But again, no dog vomit in said hair, so I’m calling it a win.

Dylan’s friendly voice catches my attention at the front desk. Might be an emergency since it’s past appointment time. So I pull myself up to go out and see what’s going on.

How I can already have a sore back at only five months pregnant is beyond me. But since I’m considered geriatric in my pregnancy because of my advanced age, I’ve been instructed to take things as physically easy as possible.

That means no more lifting sixty-five-pound dogs up on a table, which is admittedly a pain in the ass.

I step out into the lobby and then stop in my tracks when I see him. Him , him. My hand falls to my baby bump again.

How can he just be standing there?

In my vet clinic?

Talking to my receptionist as if this isn’t complete insanity?

“What are you doing here?” I hear myself ask.

“Came to introduce myself to the vet—” That’s when my mystery man—my baby daddy—looks up and sees me, but there’s no recognition in his face.

Does he not recognize me? Am I so forgettable that standing this close to me, he doesn’t immediately know me?

I have an entire catalogue of memories about him from our one night together.

The scar on his lower hip. The tattoos on his back—including the one from The Mummy .

The way he growled the nickname Dimples when he came. Every. Single. Time.

Shit!

I frown. No. This is not happening. “I have to talk to Dane. There’s been a change in plans. I’ll talk to him. You just… you go.” I ramble and then turn to go back into the back, but run directly into a display of metal collar tags.

“Dylan, can you grab that? I have an emergency I’ve got to run to.” Then I just leave. Walk into the back and out the back door straight to my car.

Holy shit!

How did my baby daddy just walk into my veterinarian clinic? How did he not recognize me?