Page 45 of Pugs & Kisses

R ight there. There’s another mass.”

Bryson used the tip of a ballpoint pen to point out the kidney-shaped mass on the X-ray of a Yorkshire terrier’s spleen.

“Dammit,” Bryson cursed in a low whisper. He hated this part of his job. “We can’t go through with this surgery. It would be different if we were dealing with the one tumor, or a younger patient. But we’re up to four tumors on a thirteen-year-old dog. It’s too much.”

“That’s not the news Mrs. Cane will want to hear,” the surgical tech said. “She’ll be heartbroken if you tell her that she has to put Pinky down.”

“I wish I had better news,” Bryson said.

“She will tell you that money is no object.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about what’s best for this dog. Money can’t solve every problem.” He snatched the X-ray from the lighted view box. “Which consultation room is she in?”

“Room three,” the tech said.

Bryson slipped the pen back into the pocket of his white coat and started for consultation room 3. He really, really hated this part of the job.

The lab tech had been right in her prediction.

Mrs. Cane was devastated by the news Bryson had the unfortunate duty of imparting.

She took a credit card from her wallet and threw it at his chest, begging him to go through with the surgery.

It wasn’t until Bryson explained the trauma such a complicated procedure would cause to her dog’s body that she finally acquiesced.

He held her hand as she suffered through the most loving act a pet owner could carry out for their cherished companion. Then Bryson held Mrs. Cane as she cried in his arms for a solid ten minutes.

By the time he handed the woman over to her son, who had been called to drive her home, his emotions were shot.

This afternoon fit right in with the hellish week he’d endured.

It had been eight days since he’d left Evie standing in her backyard.

Bryson had lost count of the number of times he’d picked up his phone to call her, but being unsure of what to say if she answered made him put the phone down every single time.

At first, he had been so angered by Evie’s accusations that he could barely see straight. For her to think he’d been stringing her along this entire time just so that he could stick it to his old lab partner? It was absurd. It was more than just absurd—it was insulting.

It wasn’t until he’d played back that confrontation with Cameron and saw it from her perspective that Bryson realized just how she had come to the conclusion that this had been some sick game on his part.

Then he thought back to what he’d said to her—accusing her of being just like Cameron when nothing could be further from the truth.

That’s the part that was inexcusable.

He wanted to kick himself for taking his ex–lab partner’s bait. All these years later and he still allowed that asshole to get into his head.

This time it may have cost him more than he could stomach losing.

Bryson massaged the back of his neck as he made his way down the hallway.

He stopped into the daycare to check on Bella, who gave him a quick lick on the hand before running off to play with the other dogs.

She’d spent the first three nights this week sniffing around the doggy bed where Waffles slept when Evie came over.

Bryson had been forced to lock the bed in a closet.

He left the daycare and went into his office. The moment he sat behind the desk, his cell phone rang. He dropped it twice in his haste to answer it.

It was his mother.

“Hey, Ma,” Bryson answered, trying not to let his disappointment come through his voice. Apparently, he failed.

“Well, excuse me for breathing,” his mother replied.

Bryson frowned. “What?”

“You tell me. I call my son, and he answers the phone like he’s at a funeral.”

“I’m sorry, Ma.” Bryson blew out a tired breath. “I’m just having a rough day at the surgical hospital.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to call at such a bad time.”

“It’s okay,” Bryson said. “What did you need?”

“Well, I was just calling because your nephew is coming home from college in a couple of weeks and he has requested a barbecue and crawfish boil.”

“Hmm,” Bryson said. “When I was growing up, I either got a barbecue or a crawfish boil, not both.”

“My grandchildren don’t have to choose. Will you bring Evie with you?” his mother asked. “Wait, let me rephrase that. You will bring Evie with you. It isn’t a question.”

Shit. Bryson ran a hand down his face. “Um, yeah, about me and Evie.”

“Bryson David Mitchell, you better not finish that statement if you’re going to tell me that you and Evie are no longer together.”

“To be fair, we technically were not together when you met her,” he said.

But Bryson wasn’t sure if that was true or not. When had he and Evie officially become a couple? Did it ever get to that stage?

“What did you do?” his mother asked.

“Wait, why do you think it’s my fault?”

“Fine. What did she do?”

He blew out a breath. “No one did anything, Ma. It just…” He swallowed. “It just didn’t work out.”

“This is not the news I wanted to hear when I called you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the news I wanted to give you,” he said. He couldn’t do this. Not right now. “Ma, I’ve got another surgery in a few minutes,” he lied. “I’ll be there for the barbecue. Just make sure you and Pop don’t book a cruise between now and then.”

“I can’t make that promise,” she said.

Bryson ended the call and dropped his head to his desk. He hated lying to his mother, but the thought of answering any more of her questions about what happened with Evie made his head hurt. He needed at least another month… year… lifetime… before he could talk about losing Evie.

If he’d ever had her.

That’s just the thing. He had had her. He’d managed to do the impossible, win Evie back after losing her eight years ago. No, he didn’t lose her back then; he’d thrown away what they could have had together.

And like a fool, he’d allowed those same insecurities that sent him running the first time to creep back into his head. He’d allowed Cameron fucking Broussard to creep back into his head.

After everything he’d accomplished in his life, the fact that he still could not see himself as anything but that scholarship kid from the bayou was something he needed to talk over with a professional.

It was beyond anything he could work through on his own; that was evident after what happened last weekend.

He guessed what they said was true, that the first step was admitting you have a problem.

Bryson leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

Now he needed to figure out a solution to his other problem—convincing Evie he was worthy of yet another chance.