Page 16 of The Mistletoe Kisser

“Carson doesn’t have any sheep,” the vet said, blowing a hunk of honey blonde hair out of her eyes. “Just chickens.”

Freaking small towns. Where everyone knew who had what livestock.

She stood, still avoiding his gaze and coaxed the sheep to walk with her around the waiting room. The beast pranced like a show pony next to her. He caught a glimpse of a bright, shiny smile as the vet beamed down at Stan.

She had one hell of a smile. The kind that if it was aimed in his direction had the potential to knock him back a step. People who smiled a lot made him suspicious. No one should be that happy all the time.

“You’re not Ryan, are you?” she asked, snapping him out of his suspicion.

He debated lying. God only knew what unstable Uncle Carson had told his hometown about him. Then decided it didn’t matter what a reasonably attractive veterinarian in a town he’d never visit again thought of him.

“I am,” he admitted.

“Listen, Sammy. I gotta get the kids and Jojo’s car back,” Goat Guy announced, hooking his thumb toward the door.

“Better hurry, Jax, or Joey will make sure you never finish that screenplay,” the vet—Sammy apparently—said. “Call me if Thor’s limp doesn’t get better.”

Jax—what kind of a name was that anyway—leaned in and gave the vet a kiss on the cheek. Ryan moved the too-charming man onto his Things to Dislike About Blue Moon list right between “the weather” and “free range farm animals”.

“You’re my hero, Doc,” Jax said with a wink and grin that in Ryan’s opinion weren’t at all charming. “Good luck with your sheep,” Jax said to Ryan.

“He’s not my sheep,” Ryan said. But his argument was lost in the chaos of the other man rounding up his four-legged army of weird and heading out the door.

A pretty, reindeer-antlered tech held the door for him and stood there grinning after him.

“Are you going to help him, Jonica?” Sammy asked the tech.

“I’m gonna watch and laugh for a minute before I offer any assistance,” she called over her shoulder before ducking out the door.

Sammy laughed and shoved a wayward curl out of her face. It flopped defiantly back into place.

“Good news,” she said, crossing the gray linoleum tile and holding out the leash. “Your sheep is fine. No cuts or swelling. No limping. I don’t think you hit him.”

Ryan blew out a breath. At least he hadn’t run over a sheep. That was the one and only tick mark in the Reasons Life Doesn’t Suck column.

“Good. But he’s still not my sheep,” he repeated.

Now the damn thing was staring at him. So was the vet. She jiggled the end of the belt leash at him.

“Can’t you keep him? Find his family?” Ryan asked, staring dumbly at the leash. If he reached for it, if he touched it, the sheep was his responsibility. He was familiar with the rules of No Takesies Backsies.

Besides, he had a small-town bank to destroy and a plane ticket to book.

“We don’t have the facilities to house livestock here and we can’t just let him roam free,” she insisted.

“Look. I just got into town an hour ago for a family emergency—”

“Is Carson okay? I talked to him this morning, and he didn’t mention an emergency,” she asked, looking worried.

Her eyes reminded him of a field of lavender. Fresh and bright. Maybe he was coming down with something? He didn’t have romantic notions about attractive strangers and lavender fields. He slapped a hand to his forehead, but everything felt hot compared to his frozen palm.

“He’s fine,” Ryan said, shoving his frozen hands back into his pockets. She couldn’tmakehim take the sheep. “He had to fly to Boca to help his second cousin after her surgery.”

“He’s eighty-five-ish years old,” she said with the faintest smile on unpainted lips.

“Apparently the cousin is ninety-nine.”

“That’s some longevity you’ve got in your family.” She took a step toward him, still holding the makeshift leash.