Page 1

Chapter 1

Willow

Dog hair, glitter confetti, and the Bee Gees at full blast do not an enjoyable evening make. Or rather, it would if I was running off more than four hours of broken sleep. I’m usually down for an impromptu after-work club crawl on a Friday night, especially if it’s to celebrate my beloved boss’s fiftieth birthday. Spur-of-the-moment chaos normally fuels me, but I can’t shake the bone-deep exhaustion that’s been hounding me the last few weeks. I also can’t seem to evade the creeper who hasn’t taken no for an answer the last twenty-six times.

Beelining for the bar, I wedge myself between the wall and a man in all black who doesn’t look up from his glass full of clear liquid and lime wedges.

“Can I…” I tip my chin to the empty barstool, where his black boot is resting on the lowest rung.

“I don’t want company.”

Okay, Grumpypus.

Normally, I’d try to brighten this stranger’s day, but I’m zonked…and a little irritated at his assumption. So what if he’s got shoulders for days and gorgeous copper hair that flirts with the collar of his dress shirt? He shouldn’t assume I’m here to talk to him. I’m here to grab a moment of much-needed rest and order something to quench the thirst I can’t escape.

“Neither do I, but unfortunately, I keep getting hit on by this guy who won’t take no for an answer. Do me a favor and direct that grouchy glare at anyone who comes my way. I just need a minute’s rest.”

He doesn’t say anything, but a muscle in his jaw pops as his fingers tighten around his highball glass. The action draws my attention to his impressively sculpted and tattooed forearms.

“Shirley Temple, please,” I tell the bartender when she nods in my direction.

Folding my arms over the bar top, I nestle my face into them with an exhausted exhale. There’s a clink near my elbow, and I mumble, “Thank you,” assuming it’s my drink. I’ll suck it down in just a minute, but right now I just need to—

“Lolo! Come back to the dance floor!”

I raise my head, looking over my shoulder at my co-worker-turned-best-friend, Delilah. She’s wearing the same purple paw-print scrubs I am, even though she doesn’t work with animals as the vet clinic’s front desk coordinator.

“In a minute!”

When Delilah pouts and pantomimes pulling a rope, a bright smile overtakes my face. It stinks working three part-time jobs to barely scrape by, but at least this job has Delilah. She’s been my closest friend since moving to Virginia Beach six months ago.

I lift my drink, pointing to my mouth before clutching my hand over my throat to pantomime my ever-present thirst. My elbow accidentally bumps the guy next to me during my theatrics, and he shifts away slightly.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

Broody McGrumperson simply grunts.

When Delilah rolls her eyes and turns to dance with the rest of our veterinary practice, I chug half of the glass, forgoing the straw. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before getting distracted by the clumps of goldendoodle hair still stuck to my scrub sleeve.

I miss being covered in flecks of paint instead of animal hair, especially since I’m allergic to cats and dogs. Thank goodness for over-the-counter antihistamines and a willingness to do anything to pay rent while chipping away at my staggering two-hundred-thousand-dollar art school loans.

A tickle pricks my nose halfway through brushing off the hair, and the urge to sneeze hits me so fast I don’t have time to set down my Shirley Temple.

That seasick sensation swoops low in my belly. It always happens right before I make a giant fool of myself. The first time I felt it was as a clumsy pre-schooler when I tripped into Miss Taylor’s backside with paint-covered hands. Whenever I was embarrassed after one of my episodes, my mom would tuck me beneath her chin, squeezing me so tight it was almost hard to breathe. She’d tell me I was absolutely perfect just the way I was—even if I occasionally lit the kitchen towels on fire or accidentally dented the hood of the car.

A noisy inhale fills my open mouth as my hand drops the glass to cover my sneeze. Tiny stars pop over my squeezed-shut eyelids at the same time a wooded scent engulfs me. I’m puzzled when there’s no sound of my drink hitting the bar top. My eyes snap open just as the man’s large hand sets the glass in front of me.

Wait.

Did he just catch that in midair?

I stare at the swirling ice of my Shirley Temple for two beats before glancing right. Mr. Grumpypus doesn’t look like he’s moved a muscle. He’s still rigidly hunched over his own drink, jaw tight.

But…

I saw his hand on my glass. Didn’t I?

That wasn’t a hallucination.