I join Greg and Banana in the other room, bringing Oscar Mayer with me. Hopefully, the pudgy dog’s cuteness will help Greg forget that I had a mouth like Swamp Thing just a few minutes ago.
“And who is this?” Greg asks when the little tubber runs over to him. “Oh, wait a minute . . . I know you.” Greg starts dancing out of the way.
“This is Oscar Mayer. You know, the one who peed a smiley face on your boots the last time you were here.”
“Oh, I remember well.” He bends down to pet the puppy, keeping him well away from his shoes. He’s wearing what look like brand-new hiking boots in rich brown leather. They go perfectly with the darker denim of his jeans and the forest-green-and-navy-blue flannel shirt he’s wearing over a gray thermal. His hair is longer than the last time I saw it. I would love to run my hands through the gentle waves to see if they’re as soft as they look . . . There’s something about a hot guy playing with a puppy that gets to me.
I have to put some distance between us so I can think properly, so I go over to my desk and sit down. I shuffle papers, trying to act busy. Bills, bills, bills . . . busy, busy, busy. I do not want to run my fingers through your hair, I really don’t. I swear I don’t. Maybe only a little.
“Do you want to show me that complaint?” Greg asks, standing and encouraging Oscar to run over to wrestle with Banana; he pushes on the puppy’s little butt, scooting him across the floor in that direction, but Oscar turns around and comes right back, determined to sit on Greg’s feet.
“Complaint?” Rose is my name and playing dumb is my game.
“The legal document I saw on your desk the last time I was here. The lawsuit?”
I shake my head, shuffling more papers aimlessly. “No, that’s all right. I’ve got it under control.”
He walks over and leans his elbows on the counter, staring at me. He’s entirely too close. I can smell his shampoo again. Citrus and cedar . . . “What’s going on with you?” he asks.
I look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I thought everything was cool with us.”
I shrug, ignoring the thrill that runs through me. “Everything is cool with us. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He sighs. “Maybe if I apologize it’ll help.”
My heart leaps. “Apologize? For what?”
“For that phone call.”
My ears are burning like they’re on fire. I shake my head a little, hoping my hair will cover them. “Why should you apologize for me calling you?” I wish that heavy breather would call me back right now . . . Anything to stop this conversation from happening would be nice. I should have trained Oscar Mayer to pee on command.
“Because I didn’t handle it well,” he says.
I can’t keep eye contact with him, so I focus on alphabetizing my bills. I shuffle through the stack, pulling papers out and putting them back in. It helps to draw my focus away from how incredibly uncomfortable this is. He actually feels like he should be the one apologizing for not knowing how to handle my complete lack of social skills where he’s concerned. I wish I could act normal around him, but I just can’t seem to get there.
“It was fine,” I say, picking up the stack of bills and banging them down on the desk about ten times, trying to get the individual sheets of paper to all line up. “I called you at your office, and you did exactly what you should’ve done. You were very professional.”
“No, I was rude. You caught me off guard.”
“That’s fine.” It doesn’t feel fine, but what’s the point in making a big deal out of it? It’s not like he’s my boyfriend who hurt my feelings and now needs to make up for it. He has every right to turn me down when I reach out for a favor. He’s not a family friend, and he’s not a man who comes here once a year to escape the crazy world and work for us in exchange. He’s a very expensive lawyer who works for men I hardly know. That’s it. The end. Game over.
“There was somebody else in the room when you called.”
“Sure. Of course. It’s your office, right? I get that.”
“I tried to call you back.”
I look up at him. “I know. I ignored the call.”
“Why?”
“Are you seriously asking me that question?” I look up, trying without success to read his expression. Does he actually believe I wanted another heaping helping of embarrassment?
He shakes his head. “No. I know why you didn’t pick up. I was a bit of an asshole.”
“A bit of an asshole?” I have to smile at that. “No, I don’t think so. I think you were just saying what needed to be said.” Which was, essentially, that you, Rose Lancaster, have no reason to contact Greg Lister when he’s not here at the farm. There is nothing between you two, and there never will be, neither professionally nor personally.
He reaches over the desk, grabs my hand, and shakes my fingers a couple times before he lets go. “Don’t say that. I was a hundred percent asshole, not just a bit of one. It’s just . . . There are complications.”
He’s not making any sense. I look up at him and sigh. “Honestly, Greg . . . I really don’t understand how me making a simple phone call to your office to ask you if you just called me creates complications for you.” I’m starting to think I’m not the only one in the room feeling out of sorts. He’s making about as much sense as I am.
He sighs and turns around, walking over to one of the lobby chairs and dropping down into it. He folds his hands over his outstretched legs and twiddles his thumbs while staring at them. “Remember I told you that a woman named Veronica has been watching my dog for me?”
“Yes.”
“She works with me. She’s an associate at the firm.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” No, it’s not really interesting at all, but I feel the need to help him along. He’s clearly uncomfortable sharing this information.
“She offered to watch my dog for me and has been really helpful with all this stuff going on with the band, so I took her up on it a couple times.”
There’s obviously more to the story. He looks very tortured. I’m just not sure that I should hear it, but does that stop me? “And?” No, it does not.
“She took it to mean something more than it did.” He looks up, staring at me meaningfully.
“Oh.” My heart drops into my shoes. He’s telling me that I’ve done the same thing as this Veronica person. I’ve read more into our interactions than he intended. How embarrassing. So how in the heck do I extricate myself from this mess I’ve created? The answer comes to me like a bolt of lightning landing right in the center of my brain: Fake it. I will say whatever I need to in order to get out of this. I’ll pretend it never happened. Some girl was crushing on you and assumed too much? Phew! Glad that wasn’t me.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say. “I hate when that happens. I hope you get it worked out.” I stand and turn toward the back room. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean out some kennels.”
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”
I turn around to face him. “I thought that was the end of the story.” I pray he’s not about to lecture me about how I’ve done the same thing and really need to get my shit together. I can’t think of anything that would be more humiliating.
“You remember how Amber said that she thought Veronica was my girlfriend?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, I guess that was what she was shooting for. And I didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”
“Oh. That sucks for her.” Now I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me.
“It kinda sucks for me, too,” he says, laughing but without humor.
“Why is that?”
“Because she’s not really taking no for an answer.”
I have to smile at that. “Being that she’s a lawyer and all.”
“I don’t know that it’s the lawyer thing. It’s more like she’s a little nuts, and unfortunately, we work together, so I can’t avoid her.?
?? He shakes his head in what looks like disappointment. “Anyway, I know it’s not an excuse for how I treated you, but when you called, she and I were in the middle of a conversation where I was telling her again that I wasn’t interested in going out for drinks or dinner or anything else. She’d just asked me for the fifth time.”
“Poor you.” I have a really hard time believing that he hated the attention so much—seeing as how he’s a man and all—but I’m glad to know he’s not telling me this story just to lecture me about my inappropriate phone call. I think I’m out of those woods, at least.
He looks up with a slight grin. “Why do I get the impression you’re mocking me?”
I shrug. “Maybe because I’ve never met a man who hates the attention of a persistent woman, assuming she’s pretty.”
“Yes, you have, actually.” He leans over and pets the dogs, who have given up on wrestling and are now lying by his feet. “Met one, I mean.”
Now I feel bad for the girl. For Veronica. If Greg looked right at me and told me to get lost, after I put myself out there and asked him out on a date, I’d be devastated. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Pick your adjective. From what I’ve seen, Greg is a good catch . . . maybe even a great one. To imagine there could be something there between us and then have him crush my feelings . . . I don’t even want to think about it; it makes my heart hurt. I need to not get attached to this guy. He could really do some damage.
“I hope you were kind to her about it. It’s probably not easy putting yourself out there like that only to be rejected.”
“She’s pretty tough. She can handle it.”
He sounds like every other clueless guy I’ve ever talked to. Emerald’s ex-boyfriend, Smitty, comes to mind. He took her out on a couple dates and then apparently things went downhill quick when they slept together, and now she spends any moment he’s on the farm avoiding him. He’s a super-great guy to have as a friend or pseudo-big-brother—which is essentially what he is after having grown up just down the road from us most of our lives—but apparently he’s not Em’s type. Too bad he doesn’t get it; to this day, he still flirts with her, even though she’s pregnant with Sam’s baby. Guys can be so oblivious sometimes. “Didn’t you say she’s watching your dog again?” I ask.
“Yes.” He pauses and looks up to see me rolling my eyes. “Are you saying that was a bad call on my part?”
“Well, duh. Of course it was.” I’m so disappointed. I thought he was more sensitive than this.
“But she’s a great dog sitter. It’s hard to find a good one in the city who isn’t already watching ten other dogs. I don’t want Tink going out on one of those group walks. She’ll get crushed.”
“I understand that, but still . . . Veronica has every right to keep asking you out if you keep using her for pet sitting.” I’m really not sure how a guy as smart as Greg could be so dense.
“Using her? That sounds bad.”
I shrug. “If the shoe fits . . .”
He rubs his hands together slowly, staring at them. “You really don’t have a very good opinion of me, do you?”
I go back to my pretend organizing. “It’s not my place to judge you . . . but if you must know, I don’t think you’re such a bad guy.”
“Well, that’s good news.” I hear a smile in his voice. He leans over and messes with the dogs some more. They’re more than happy to keep him entertained, crawling all over each other to get to him.
“You know,” I say, trying to sound tempting, “Oscar Mayer is looking for a new home. Maybe Tinkerbell would appreciate having a friend around to keep her company.”
He points at the dog. “This Oscar Mayer? The pisser?”
I have to laugh. “Yes. The pisser. He’ll grow out of it, I promise.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“No pressure. It’s my job to find him a home, so I had to ask. I put his pictures up on the website several days ago, but I haven’t had any lookers yet.” I stand, moving toward the back room. “Listen, I have to get some work done. Thanks for walking me down here.”
He stands. “I’ll help. You can tell me about the lawsuit while I assist.”
I fold my arms over my chest, feeling defensive. Why is he trying so hard? Does he pity me? I hate to think that could be true. “You seriously don’t need to do that.”
“I know.” He walks over and stops close to me, his presence nearly swallowing me up, it’s so intense.
Sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. “You do realize that this work I have to do involves cleaning up poop.”
“I’ve never been one to shy away from getting my hands dirty.” He rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. “Let’s do this.”
“If you insist . . .” I smile all the way to the back room. I have a very strong feeling he’s going to change his mind when we get to the possum cage.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
So, this is what the life of an animal shelter vet is all about . . .” Greg sprays some antiseptic on the tray I slide out from underneath one of the kennels. This is the third one we’ve done together, but it’s not the worst. I’m saving that one for last so he won’t quit early. I have a lot of experience with enthusiastic volunteers who suddenly lose their mojo after smelling possum poo.
“No, this is the life of an animal rescue worker,” I say, scrubbing the edge of the tray, trying not to breathe through my nose. “The beauty of being a vet is you don’t have to clean out the kennel trays. That’s peon work.”
“Tell me again why you’re not a vet.” Greg twists his arm around so he can get into the tray’s nooks and crannies. He’s actually very good at cleaning up poop. I might even give him a sticker when we’re done.
“Because there wasn’t time,” I say, tamping down the feelings of regret that always haunt me when the subject comes up.
“What do you mean?”
“After I finished college, I pretty much started up the rescue the next day. And then I had animals coming in left and right and couldn’t imagine myself walking away from them. Many of them are wild, and regular vet clinics won’t take them in, so the animals die, often after suffering a great deal of pain over a long period of time. I just couldn’t do it.” I shrug. There’s more to the story than that, but I don’t want to invite him into my personal life so completely. He doesn’t need to know that I was still hurting from being dumped and rejected by my boyfriend of nearly a year, that my family seemed to be struggling to get all the work done on the farm, and that my sisters and I really missed one another. I’d been occupied with my schoolwork for so long, I needed to reconnect. My family is my rock. They are what keep me grounded in life, and after being so hurt I wasn’t feeling like a part of anything.
“Sooo, you just woke up in the morning after you graduated college and said, ‘I’m going to start an animal rescue’? Have you always been into animals?”
“I’ve always been into animals, yes . . . but no, I didn’t just wake up and decide to do this. Somebody left a box of kittens at the end of our driveway the day after I finished school, and I’m the one who found them. I was so mad that somebody would do that, but I was also instantly busy with feeding them and making sure they survived.”
“There are some pretty crappy people out there, that’s for sure.” He sprays more disinfectant in one of the corners. I don’t think my kennel trays have been this clean since they arrived brand-new. “Lucky for the kittens you’re a good person.”
“Word got around that I was able to get all of them healthy and then adopted out, so more animals started coming in. At first it was just cats and dogs, but then people would bring in squirrels and birds, too.”
“What’s the strangest animal you’ve ever treated?”
“I would have to say . . . a caiman.”
“A caiman?” He pauses and looks at me. “Please tell me that’s not the reptile I’m picturing in my mind.”
I smile big. “It is a reptile. A seriously cool one. They look like alligators or min
i dinosaurs.”
He drops his arms to his sides. “Who in the heck would have a caiman way up here outside of Glenhollow Farms . . . let alone in the entire state of Maine?”
“We have a couple reptile lovers who come to the clinic. One guy drives several hours to come here with his boa. Not a lot of vets around here handle reptiles . . . or they do and they’re not . . . I don’t know.” I shrug. I don’t want to brag, but the guy who brings me his boa says they’re not nearly as good with his pet as I am, so he’s willing to travel to keep his snake happy.
Greg shivers and then goes back to his cleaning. “No, thank you. You can keep the snakes.”
“They’re not my favorite either, but I’m not afraid of them like I used to be.”
His scrubbing slows as he stares at me. “You’re afraid of snakes and yet you treat snakes?”
“I used to be. I also used to be afraid of pretty much every other animal that came in here, besides dogs and cats.”
“But you treated them anyway.”
“Yes, of course. What else was I going to do? Turn them away? I would never do that to a sick animal. Besides . . . I wouldn’t be much of a wildlife rescue operation if I only rescued canines and felines.”
He shakes his head slowly as he goes back to his cleaning work. “You’re a good person, Rose. I admire you.”
My heart fills with warmth. “Thank you.” We slide the clean tray back in and move on to the one below it. This kennel has the chinchilla inside it. He’s almost ready to go home, his injured leg healing nicely.
“Hello there, Chinchilla. How are you feeling today?” Greg asks, sticking his finger in the cage.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He jerks his hand back, his eyes widening. “Are they dangerous?”
“They can bite. But the reason I warned you this time is we should clean the cage before you put your finger on it. It’s probably dirty.”
Greg inspects his finger and frowns. “Oh, yeah. Good call.” He sprays some disinfectant on his fingertip and scrubs at it with a paper towel.
I can’t help but giggle. Now I’m seeing the lawyer emerge. I’ll bet he’s never had to clean anything in his office.