Page 19 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: Well, that’s dramatic.
Olivia: You know what’s dramatic? Owning a clinic where my only client today was a woman who came in to ask if I could take her ex-husband’s dog out of spite.
Lucian: . . . did you do it?
Olivia: No, obviously. I told her we were closed for renovations.
Lucian: A missed opportunity. You should’ve charged double.
I let out a strangled laugh before stopping myself.
No, you don’t laugh at his nonsense jokes.
Then I write in my to-do list: No laughing. No enjoying Lucian Crawford’s insufferable humor. No humoring him, like ever.
If I do, madness will follow me, and I don’t have time for that.
I glance at the time and groan.
I need caffeine. Now.
Olivia: I’m going to get coffee. If Sarah follows me, I take no responsibility.
Lucian: First of all, Sarah is in the car with me. She wouldn’t and couldn’t follow you. Second . . . taking my dog is dog-napping.
Olivia: She’s the one doing the napping. I’m just facilitating her best life.
I tuck my phone away before I can see his response and grab my purse, locking the door behind me.
I just need coffee. That’s it. Nothing more.
Nothingin the world can’t be fixed—or at least temporarily numbed—by an iced vanilla latte and a ridiculously large berry-yogurt muffin.
I exhale, finally starting to feel human again.
Sarah is curled up under my table, blissfully snoozing like she didn’t just ditch Lucian without a second thought. Okay, fine—she technically didn’t ditch him. He’s sitting right across from me, nursing . . . water.
Who walks into a coffee shop and just drinks water?
Lucian Crawford, apparently. He’s that bold.
It’s not even that he didn’t buy anything—he’s the one who paid for my coffee and muffin. I should be grateful, but all I can think about is . . . what does he want from me?
Because in my world, no one acts solely out of the kindness of their heart. Perhaps that makes me a bit jaded, but can you blame me? Nothing has ever come free to me. Even when I do pay, I end up with a moldy animal clinic and a house that looks like it belongs in a haunted real estate listing. I should’ve realized that beneath the old furniture and frames, there were many more issues than just the need for a lick of paint.
Lucian takes a slow sip of his very unnecessary water before casually saying, “So let me get this straight—you’ve been painting your clinic all week . . . in scrubs?”
I frown. “What?”
He gestures vaguely at me. “I’ve seen you come and go at least twice in scrubs that look like they lost a fight with a laundry basket.” He scratches his chin. “What’s up with that, Doc?”
Oh, this guy. It’s like he has to know everything. Everything.
“Those days I was at the shelter.” I break off a piece of muffin and fidget with it while considering my response. It seems rather silly to work elsewhere when your clinic is in desperate need of attention. In my defense, I had already agreed to cover some shifts before realizing how much work I would have to put into my new business. “I volunteer when I can. Giving back to the community and all that.”
Lucian leans back, assessing me like I just revealed that I moonlight as a superhero. “So, on top of running a barely functioning clinic, you’re also working for free?” He exhales dramatically. “And you’re personally overseeing all the renovations?”
“Yes, Lucian,” I reply, suppressing a sigh. “Because some of us don’t earn millions by throwing a ball around.”
