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“He’s texting you again, isn’t he?” Jules asks, leaning one hip against the counter while swirling the ice around in his plastic coffee cup.

“Maybe.”

Jules snorts. “You've got that look.”

I look up. “What look?”

He points his iced coffee at me. “The one where your whole face lights up and you forget other people exist.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “I do not.”

“You do, honey.”

I tuck my phone away. “Mind your business.”

“My business is your business. Occupational hazard of being besties.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile refuses to leave my face.

Jules notices immediately. His grin grows wider. “There it is.”

“What?”

“That ridiculous lovesick smile.” His expression turns positively smug. “Oh, my Lord. Y'all are a real-life fairy tale.”

I huff out a laugh. “You spend entirely too much time watchin’ Disney movies.”

“Says the woman who practically communicates with animals.” Jules grins. “You're one bluebird away from bein’ Snow White.”

“You're impossible.”

“And you're in love.”

This time, I don't deny them. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I am.”

Jules grows serious, his expression turning thoughtful. “You happy?”

The question has more meaning than the two words should because Jules knows exactly how hard it is for me to trust. He knows every disappointment, every heartbreak, every reason I spent years convincing myself I didn't need anyone.

“Yeah,” I say again. “I really am.”

Jules smiles. “Good. Lord knows you deserve it.”

My heart squeezes unexpectedly. Thankfully, a volunteer rushes down the hallway before I embarrass myself.

“Maggie?” Sarah calls. “The Henderson family is here for their adoption appointment.”

I hand Mr. Whiskers to Jules. “Duty calls.”

The next several hours disappear beneath the usual shelter frenzy. An elderly couple falls in love with a senior beagle named Buttercup. A litter of abandoned kittens arrives from animal control. One of our foster families drops off homemade cookies. The phones ring nonstop.

By early afternoon, exhaustion sinks deep into my bones. We’re desperately short on volunteers this week. Summer vacations, family obligations, and the fear stirred up by the break-in and everything that followed, have thinned our volunteer roster even more. At this point, our schedule is hanging together with hope, caffeine, and sheer stubbornness.

Jules emerges from the office carrying paperwork while I refill water bowls in the main kennel wing.

“We need more laundry detergent,” he says. “And dog food. Also, Mrs. Patterson called. She can only foster through Saturday.”

I groan. “Have mercy.”