Page 2 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

Amanda

Twenty-Six Years Later

"Still breathing?" Morgan asks when I finally answer her call.

"Barely. Turns out being Bellwood's most famous veterinary clinic with you only part time is exhausting.

" I tuck my phone between ear and shoulder while checking a tabby's IV line.

"Ever since you and Max won that dog show championship, everyone wants the 'celebrity vet experience.

' Though the prize money did let us hire Laura, so I'll forgive you. "

"You love the chaos."

"I'd love it more if—" A crash from the lobby cuts me off. Through the observation window, I see Otto—all six-foot-plus of military-honed muscle—tangled in a rainbow of leashes while trying to maintain his dignity.

It's like watching a ballet performed by a very serious tree .

For context: Picture the most intimidating man you've ever seen.

Now make him taller, add shoulders that barely fit through standard doors, and top it with a jaw that could chisel ice.

His blond hair is military-short, his black fitted t-shirt and camo cargo pants scream special ops, and he moves with the precision of someone who probably knows seventeen ways to kill you with a paperclip.

"Hold that thought," I tell Morgan. "Otto's losing a battle with Mrs. Henderson's color-coordinated canine army. This time, they're wearing tutus."

"Tutus?"

"Sparkly ones. With disco ball effects."

"Poor Otto."

I step into the lobby just as Otto manages to free himself. He straightens, adjusts his t-shirt, and announces with complete seriousness: "Ze small ones are plotting something."

"They're Yorkies, Otto."

"Ja. And now they sparkle." He eyes the prancing dogs. "Zat's too suspicious."

"They're not enemy agents."

"Zat's what they want you to think." He eyes a particularly tiny one. "Ze fluffy one has been watching me. She has plans."

From the treatment area, Laura emerges with a German Shepherd who sits perfectly at heel. Otto's face softens slightly. "Finally. A professional."

He gestures between the shepherd and the Yorkies. "One follows commands. Ze others plan revolution."

Laura's been a godsend since we hired her—skilled in surgery, great with clients, and somehow able to translate Otto-speak into normal human communication. Right now, though, she's frowning at me. "Dr. Collins, you look pale."

"Just tired." I wave her off, though the room does feel a bit wobbly. "How's our parvo puppy? "

"Eating on his own this morning."

My heart lifts. We'd spent three nights tube-feeding the little guy, taking turns monitoring his IV. "Show me."

In the isolation ward, a small black Lab mix wags his tail when we enter. I crouch beside his kennel, and he immediately licks my hand through the bars. Two days ago, he'd been too weak to lift his head.

"Hey, fighter," I whisper, scratching under his chin. "Looking good."

Otto appears in the doorway. "Ze tiny warrior recovers well."

"Thanks to Dr. Collins's all-nighters," Laura adds.

I stand up—too quickly, apparently, because the room spins. Laura steadies me with a hand on my arm.

"Dr. Collins?"

"Just need coffee." I blink away the dizziness. "Let's check on the surgery schedule."

The morning blurs by. A dental cleaning. Two spays. A mass removal that turns out more complicated than the x-rays suggested. By afternoon, my hands are shaking slightly, but there's still a waiting room full of patients.

Otto is now demonstrating leash techniques to Laura. A Golden Retriever puppy has launched a stealth attack on his boots, methodically unlacing them while Otto pretends not to notice.

I'm about to comment when something warm trickles down my face. I touch my nose. My fingers come away red.

Otto reacts instantly, expression grave. "Zat's too concerning."

"It's nothing," I lie, grabbing tissues. "Probably the dry air."

"Like ze dizziness is from coffee? Ze shakiness from surgery?" His voice softens. "You are not fooling anyone."

"Don't you have actual work to do?"

"Ja. Keeping you alive is full-time job."

"I already have a mother."

"And I have no girlfriend. We both have problems."

I snort. "Well, too bad I can't help you with that. We both know I'm not your type. Too much sass, not enough camo."

"Zat's too accurate." He almost smiles. "Also, you talk too much."

This is why Otto and I work so well together. He hovers, I snap, he doesn’t flinch. It works. Zero romantic tension, maximum snark. Plus, he's the only person besides Morgan who calls me on my bullshit.

And even if he were my type, the clinic keeps me too busy for dating.

My phone buzzes.

Morgan: Otto texted. What's this about nosebleeds?

Me: Traitor.

Morgan: Best friend privileges. Talk.

Me: Nothing to talk about.

Morgan: Right. That's why Otto's worried.

Me: Otto worries about everything.

Morgan: He notices everything. There's a difference.

Me: I hate you both.

Morgan: No you don't. And I'm staying after rounds Thursday. No arguments.

Despite everything—the headaches, the fatigue, the constant hovering from well-meaning friends—I smile.

Maybe they’re right to worry. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe I should see a doctor.

But right now? I have a clinic full of animals who need me, friends who care, and a life that's mostly pretty great. Even if it includes Otto's judgy eyebrows and Morgan's long-distance mother-henning.

Speaking of which... Otto is demonstrating perfect heel position while the puppy continues its systematic destruction of his boots. He knows, but he's letting the pup think it's winning. Under that stern exterior, he's just a big softie.

"Otto!" I call out. "Your student has disarmed you!"

He looks down at his now completely unlaced boots, then at the puppy wagging innocently. "Zat's too clever. Someone has been training ze enemy."

And really, how can anyone stay worried when that's what passes for normal around here?