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CHAPTER NINE

Kenzie

What in the world just happened?

Braden swept into the room with the grace of a charming poet, offering his assistance with my charts, and then he touched me, kissed me, made me come, and departed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

My fingers tremble as they rake through my hair, the pounding of my pulse is loud.

The scent of Braden still clings to the air: a crisp, clean aroma of soap mixed with a subtle hint of musk, something distinctively his.

I glance at the framed poem on my wall, its words now imbued with a weight they never carried before. They want me. All of them.

I sink into my desk chair, biting my lip in an effort to ground myself. This is madness. No, it transcends madness. It's reckless, unprofessional, downright irresponsible.

And yet, I've never felt more alive .

The memory of Braden’s hands, the assured way he knew just where to touch me, the confidence in his movements, as though he was fully aware I would melt under his touch.

And oh, how I did.

I press my thighs together, trying to dispel the lingering sensation, the tingling across my skin where his hands had been, the spectral imprint of his lips against mine. I exhale sharply, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.

This is overwhelming. But when my gaze returns to the poem, to its soft, romantic words, I realize I can no longer feign ignorance.

They want me.

And perhaps…I want them, too.

I just don’t know if I’m ready to admit that.

From my office, I have an unobstructed view of the rink through the expansive glass window, and my eyes are irresistibly drawn back to it, as if pulled by an unseen force.

I tell myself that I’m merely observing practice, ensuring the team is in tip-top shape, that everything appears as it should. But the truth? I’m captivated by them.

Ambrose, with a stability and power that seems to radiate from him, commands the ice with every precise movement, a force of nature on skates.

Reggie, with his sharp, confident demeanor, is always grinning, his eyes constantly scanning, ever-watchful and full of life.

And Braden…

Braden catches me staring.

He doesn’t smirk or wink, not immediately anyway.

No, he lets his gaze linger on me, like he knows exactly what thoughts are swirling in my mind, like he can still sense my presence just as I can feel his.

I press a hand to my flushed cheek, swallowing hard to keep my composure.

Shit, I’m so in over my head.

The drills continue, the pucks smacking against the boards with a satisfying crack, the sounds of skates carving into the ice filling the air like a symphony of athleticism. I lose myself in the rhythm of it all, the structured chaos, the raw power in their movements, until, all at once, they do it.

All three of them skate past me.

And in perfect, ridiculous unison they blow me kisses.

I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified, yet unable to suppress the laughter bubbling up from within me. I shake my head, turning away from the rink before I completely combust with embarrassment and amusement.

I like the attention. I really, really like the attention.

Which means I’m in far deeper trouble than I ever imagined.

I try to suppress the fluttering in my chest caused by all the attention, but it’s impossible. They’re so captivated by me.

And the worst part? I revel in it.

It’s not merely the physical attraction, though that aspect is undeniably powerful. It’s the way they gaze at me, as if I’m something rare, something extraordinary.

As if I’m more than just the girl who tends to the birds.

For the first time, I feel truly desired.

And it’s perilous.

I let out a deep sigh, pushing myself away from the cluttered desk, attempting to shake these thoughts free, when my phone vibrates insistently against the table. I glance down at the screen.

Mom.

A tight knot forms in my stomach. I hesitate before answering, stepping into the quiet of the hallway.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, already steeling myself for the conversation.

“Kenzie, sweetheart! It’s been ages since we talked. Are you doing okay?” Her voice is syrupy sweet, but there’s always that underlying edge, that slight tone of disapproval, as if she’s poised to catch me in a misstep.

“I’m fine,” I reply, even though I already know the direction this is heading.

“Well, I was just thinking, it’s been so long since you’ve been back home, and the church is doing a special service this weekend. You should really come.”

I swallow hard, gripping my phone a bit tighter. “I, um…I actually hurt my hand,” I say, hoping this excuse will end the conversation. “I’m behind at work, and…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she exclaims. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?! I can come out and help with the clinic!”

Fuck!

“No, no,” I say, my words sudden. “Mom, it’s not that serious. I have a handle on it. Tell you what, I’ll come visit this weekend.”

Church. Oh, wonderful.

My mother shrieks excitedly, but I can’t even muster a smile.

I rub my temples the moment I hang up the phone, already regretting every word I just uttered.

I can already picture the scene with vivid clarity.

My mother will parade me into the congregation like some prodigal sinner returned from the wilderness, her smile too bright, introducing me to every eligible man in the building as if I’m a prize calf displayed at a county fair, ready for the highest bidder.

I press my fingers harder against my forehead, trying to dispel the throbbing ache forming behind my eyes.

Why did I agree to this?

Truthfully, because it was the only way to prevent her from showing up here unannounced. And even though the thought of enduring two hours of sermons and painfully forced small talk makes me want to scream into a pillow, it’s still preferable to having my mother invade my clinic and scrutinize every aspect of my life.

I glance back at the rink, where the guys are still gliding across the ice, utterly oblivious to my little crisis.

They’re so engrossed, so liberated, roughhousing over the puck, throwing playful shoves, their laughter echoing like they don’t have a single care in the world.

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on me.

That kind of freedom feels like a distant dream. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I push off the wall and start packing up my things. I have work to do, tasks that demand my attention.

The last thing I need is to get swept up in the camaraderie of the guys again. Even as I head for my car, I can still feel the lingering warmth of Braden’s lips on mine, a reminder of distractions I can’t afford.

The moment I slide into the driver's seat, I grip the steering wheel with a vice-like intensity, my knuckles turning a stark white as I inhale deeply, trying to calm the storm inside. I loathe this sensation, the constriction in my chest, the relentless buzzing behind my temples, the insidious anxiety winding itself tightly in the pit of my stomach.

I dread the thought of going to church.

I am weary of playing the dutiful daughter, returning home only to be reminded by my parents that I've strayed too far from the life they envisioned for me.

The cold, textured leather of the steering wheel digs into my palms as I squeeze harder, my fingers trembling with the effort. I feel disconnected from that world. It no longer feels like mine, if it ever did at all.

I draw in another breath, slow and deliberate, and finally turn the ignition. It'll be all right, I tell myself.

It's just one Sunday.

I ease out of the parking lot, leaving the ice rink behind me.

The moment I step into my clinic, I can hear the sounds of pets fussing in their cages. I have a bunch of boarded pets right now, all here while their owners are on vacation. Their presence is grounding, anchoring me to this place that is unequivocally mine.

And yet, as I traverse the space, a knot forms in my stomach, tightening with each step as I survey the mounting tasks awaiting my attention.

The medical supplies, so crucial to my work, are perilously low, the shelves nearly bare of prescription pet foods.

I pull out my tablet, my fingers gliding almost on autopilot, as I compile a list of necessities, syringes, antiseptics, surgical tools, bandages, avian supplements, and more.

By the time I finish, a heavy sensation settles in my gut, as though I’ve swallowed a lead weight. The total cost? Far beyond what my budget can handle.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the tension ripple across my scalp as my fingers tug at the strands. The thought of taking out another loan crosses my mind yet again, but the memory of vet school debts and the initial business startup costs of the business makes my head spin with anxiety.

I need an alternative, a different path forward.

Investors, perhaps? But the thought of navigating that complex web of financial negotiations brings its own kind of stress.

I lean against my desk, pressing my fingers to my temples in an attempt to stave off the rising tide of frustration.

All I ever wanted was to help animals.

I never anticipated the myriad challenges that came with that goal.

My brain feels like it’s in overdrive and desperately needs a break. With a weary sigh, I flip open my laptop and begin the search for flights to Columbus. It takes only minutes to find a suitable one that departs on Saturday morning.

Just enough time to fly in, endure the church service, and fly back without lingering too long under my mother’s watchful gaze. I navigate through the booking process, securing not only the flight but also a hotel and a rental car before leaning back in my chair, already exhausted from the mere thought of it all.

I can already hear my mother insisting I stay with her and Dad, but I adamantly refuse. I crave space, a buffer zone between their world and mine.

If I let them reel me in, even briefly, they’ll inevitably try to persuade me to move back home for good.

I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of my desk.

If my father has his way, he’ll attempt to introduce me to some nice Christian man, someone with a stable job, a spacious home, and unwavering faith.

The antithesis of the three men I spent last night with.

The thought amuses me, drawing out a genuine laugh. For a moment, I allow myself to envision it. Me striding into the post church potluck with Ambrose, Braden, and Reggie flanking me.

The sheer horror etched on my mother’s face. My father probably choking on his sweet tea. The entire congregation abuzz with scandalized whispers.

The image is so ludicrous, so completely absurd, that I can’t suppress the grin stretching across my lips.

Too bad it’s a mere fantasy.

I already know how Sunday will unfold. I’ll plaster on a smile. I’ll sit quietly.

I’ll nod in agreement to everything they say.

And I’ll play pretend.

Just like always.