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RORY

I keep waiting for the week he stops coming.

It’s a terrible attitude to have; I know.

And there’s no real reason to think this way.

Last Tuesday, at the end of Gage’s regular weekly visit, he left with the parting words, “I’ll come back with my tools next time.

Take care of that sticky lock on the barn.

If you find anything else that needs to be fixed, make a list and I’ll get to work on them. ”

So I should feel confident about his return.

For nearly six months, he’s stopped by once a week to help with things on the property. Repairs I haven’t gotten around to. Taking the dogs out for walks. Cleaning out the kennels so I don’t have to do them all on my own.

In the beginning, I was hesitant. Talking to people as a part of my job was one thing—they were inevitably focused on the dog they planned to adopt, and my presence was a distant second.

But to have someone here who actually looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face instead of awkwardly skittering away…

It was disconcerting. And it brought back all the insecurities I tried to shove down as I reminded myself over and over that appearances didn’t matter as much as the person within.

Who am I kidding? Of course it matters.

What’s that saying my fifth-grade teacher used to tell the class whenever someone would make fun of little Elliot, who had an unfortunate port wine stain on his face? You can’t tell a book by its cover. Once you open the book and start reading, a world of magic is revealed within.

It sounds lovely in theory. But when you’re the unappealing cover, it’s harder to feel reassured by it.

Isolated on the outskirts of Bliss, a little town in northern Vermont, I’ve cultivated a life that doesn’t require a lot of in-person interaction.

The occasional hopeful dog owner, here to look at the rescue dogs with me hovering helpfully in the background.

The vet, Dr. Wilkinson, who’s so uber-focused on the dogs, I’m not sure if she could recognize me in a lineup.

Alice, the lovely server at Breakfast Bliss, who always has my to-go orders ready and waiting at the door so I can rush inside to pick them up while my dogs wait in the car.

And then, Gage.

Achingly handsome with a jaw that could cut glass, thick chestnut hair that never looks combed, and amber eyes the color of molten honey.

Tall, at least a foot more than me, his chest and arms thick with muscle that I know comes from all the training he does for his job with a local security company.

Aside from a small scar on his cheekbone, which makes him more attractive in my eyes, he’s practically perfect.

Which is why I would never, ever dream of anything happening between us.

It would be like a flipped version of Beauty and the Beast—Gage as the beauty and me? I’m the one who hides away in a castle, surrounded by books and talking furniture and kitchenware.

Except in the story, Beauty’s love breaks the spell and Beast becomes handsome again.

In reality, that’s not going to happen.

So when Gage offered to come back to help that first time, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Did he feel sorry for me? Was it some sort of self-imposed penance and I was the punishment?

But after the second visit, I realized I enjoyed having him here.

I liked having another person to talk to instead of chattering away at my dogs, which isn’t bad, but they can’t exactly respond.

It was nice to bounce ideas off someone else, like when I wanted to upgrade the kennels, but couldn’t decide between the galvanized steel or mesh ones.

And I really like the time we spend together after the work is done. Once we finish up with the dogs, we’ll head into the house and chat over iced tea or coffee or whatever snacks I prepared in anticipation of him coming.

They’re not dates. Far from it.

I imagine Gage dating some beautiful woman in Bliss; maybe Alice with the gorgeous blonde hair or possibly Officer Nelson—Sage, she insisted when she stopped by to introduce herself—who is smart and confident and looks like she could star in a movie.

He hasn’t mentioned that he’s dating anyone, but it hasn’t come up, either. I wouldn’t ask—our talks are about the dogs, or the new expansion pack he got for his favorite video game, or how the hiking conditions are looking for the upcoming weekend.

All platonic things. And it’s better that way. Less chance of being disappointed if I never let myself consider the impossible.

Still. I like having him here.

And every Tuesday morning, I wake up with my stomach clenched in a knot, my body already anticipating rejection before my brain even thinks it.

As it gets closer to noon, the time Gage usually arrives, my heart starts to beat faster.

When I talk to the dogs, my voice pitches a little higher.

And I can’t seem to stop my gaze from sliding over to the driveway, searching for his familiar green Jeep bumping across the packed gravel.

I keep wondering if this is the week he decides he’s done enough. Or his girlfriend—if he has one—gently tells him she’d rather he didn’t spend time with another woman.

I’ll get through it, if it happens, just like I’ve gotten through everything else. But it doesn’t mean I’ll like it. Or that it won’t hurt losing the only friend I’ve allowed myself to have in the nearly five years I’ve lived here.

Which, now that I think about it, is pretty sad.

I have Isla, my oldest and best friend from college, but she’s out in Texas starting a life with her new husband and baby.

She’s not here to have wine nights and watch cheesy movies while we gorge ourselves on mountains of meat and cheese.

Instead, my nights are quiet—after a final check of the dogs, I hunker down in my living room with my two adopted dogs and watch TV or immerse myself in a new book on my Kindle.

It’s not a bad life, considering. And I know I’m luckier than many.

But sometimes… I wish things were different. I’m just not sure how to do it.

A flurry of indignant yips sounds from the furthest fenced-in area around the kennels, yanking me from my maudlin thoughts. I set the bag of dog food I’m carrying on the floor and hurry to the exit, my heart speeding for a different reason.

Hopefully Charlie, my newest arrival, hasn’t found a way to get himself in trouble already. I put him out in the little play area by himself, just to let him get acclimated, and he seemed to be enjoying it when I last checked on him ten minutes ago, but now I’m worried.

What if he tried to scale the chain-link fence and now he’s stuck halfway over it?

He shouldn’t be able to, not considering he’s just a little Jack Russel mix, but dogs can be creative when they want to be.

Or what if he found a rabbit or a squirrel and decided to play with it, necessitating an unpleasant burial and another round of deworming?

My pace picks up as I rush down the path between the play areas, and I keep my head on a swivel, scanning for any sign of trouble.

As I pass by the other dogs, they start barking, adding to the ruckus.

I know they’re all excited, thinking I’m coming to play with them, or possibly to deliver the most treasured of all things—a treat .

Another high-pitched bark has me moving even faster.

I should have installed more security cameras , I scold myself.

Gage offered to hook me up with his friend and teammate, Alec, who owns a security system company over in Stowe.

It was a few weeks ago when Gage brought it up, saying, “Alec could install a gate at the base of the driveway. Motion sensors around the perimeter of the property. Security cameras around the barn, so you’d be able to see if anyone approaches. ”

What he didn’t come right out and say, but his expression made clear, was that he didn’t think it was safe, me living on my own out here.

But who would rob me? Especially with somewhere between ten to fifteen rescues always on the property. And I have cameras inside the barn, where all the dog kennels are. So I can check on them at night, to make sure everyone’s okay.

Plus, I didn’t want to spend money that wasn’t necessary. Not that I’m broke—far from it—but it seemed frivolous when Gage brought it up. I’d rather use my money to rescue more dogs and bring them here.

Now, though? I’m rethinking things.

Another sharp bark sends my heart leaping to my throat. As I round the corner, my feet skidding on the dry dirt path, I call out, “Charlie! I’m coming. And if you’re torturing an innocent rabbit, I’m not going to be happy!”

“No harming of innocent rabbits this time,” an amused voice responds. It’s deep. Rumbly. And this time, when my heart jumps, it’s not from fear or worry, but pleased anticipation.

A moment later, I spot the source of the voice. His big body is crouched on the ground with an excited Charlie dancing around him. Then I see the reason for all the barking—a new Kong dog toy that Charlie is furiously shaking.

Gage stands and turns towards me as I approach.

He’s smiling, which is something different from when we first met.

Back then, his expression was always somber, with lines etched across his forehead and shadows in his eyes.

I think that’s one of the reasons I connected with him—though he never explained, I could tell he had ghosts, just like me.

Now he smiles more easily. And I find myself doing the same.

So with a lift of my lips, I ask, “Did you buy more toys? I told you it wasn’t necessary.”

Gage walks over to the gate to meet me, reaching over to flip up the latch and open the door. As I walk past him, I catch a whiff of his scent—pine and citrus and a hint of something else I can’t quite define. My arm brushes against his, leaving a rush of tingles behind.

But I clamp down the sensation through sheer force of will.

We’re friends. But I know I have no business thinking of Gage as anything more.