Page 6 of Finding Gideon
Once the IV line was secured, the doctor taped it down and clipped the bag to a metal stand nearby. He checked the flow, adjusted the rate.
“He’ll need to stay the night,” he said, giving the line one last inspection. “Maybe longer. I want to monitor him—make sure there’s nothing we missed.”
I nodded, hand now on the dog’s side, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. “Makes sense.”
I reached for my wallet, hesitating as I opened it. The few bills inside looked especially sad in the fluorescent light. I pulled out a wrinkled twenty.
He glanced at it, then at me. His expression didn’t change, but he didn’t reach for the money either.
“I can offer you the lowest rate we have,” he said evenly. “But even that’s more than what you’ve got.”
I cleared my throat. “I can come back. Work off the rest. Or—whatever you need. I’ll figure something out.”
He was quiet a moment, then asked, “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
I hesitated. “My truck’s a little ways from here,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “She gave up earlier. Was planning to crash inside.”
Malcolm considered that, then said, “I live behind the clinic—in a modest place. Got a guest room set up with a proper bed, some clean linens, a fan to keep the air moving, and enough space to be comfortable. Nothing fancy, but it’s home.”
I stared at him, caught between gratitude and disbelief. “You’re offering to let me stay?”
“For the night,” he said, still firm but not unkind. “You’ll have some privacy, and you’ll be safe. And I’ll feel better knowing you’re not out there in a truck while we’re monitoring the dog.”
Before I could answer, he unhooked the IV stand from the wall and began wheeling it slowly toward a door at the back. “Let’s get him settled in the recovery room,” he said.
I slid my arms carefully under the dog, mindful of the line taped to his leg. He stirred but didn’t resist, his head resting weakly against my chest.
I walked alongside Malcolm, who guided the IV stand beside us, making sure the tubing stayed clear. The room we entered was quiet, the air cooler here, lined with clean enclosures of different sizes. I eased the dog down onto a thick padded mat in one of the larger spaces, adjusting his body so the line wouldn’t catch. He let out a soft sigh and curled up, eyes half-closed.
“He’ll be fine here,” Malcolm said, closing the kennel door gently.
I nodded, still glancing back at him as Malcolm straightened.
“Come on,” he said, already heading toward the back hallway. “I’ll show you the room.”
Chapter 2
Malcolm
I caught his eyes again—the first time since I’d offered him the spare room. This wasn’t just a tired guy worn down by life. This was someone layered, complicated, with a story waiting to be told.
His dark hair was thick and tousled, like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror all day. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, the kind that would’ve landed him on a billboard if life had been fairer. Those eyes—green with a touch of gray—held a quiet intensity, like sea glass battered by storm waves, rough but mesmerizing.
There was no flash or swagger in him. No sign that he knew how striking he was. His mouth was pressed tight, maybe more out of habit than choice, giving away nothing. The whole stance was subtle but honest—guarded, yet oddly vulnerable, as if he was always ready to vanish before anyone got too close.
He was attractive. Objectively speaking. The kind of attractive that even a straight guy could clock without meaning to.
I cleared my throat, shifting my gaze.
What the hell was I thinking?
Maybe it was the way he’d stood there in the exam room—back a little too straight, like he’d braced himself for rejectionand didn’t want to flinch when it came. Or maybe it was the exhaustion written in the fine lines around his eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from just one sleepless night but from too many in a row. Either way, I’d already opened my mouth and offered the spare room before my brain could tell me not to.
I didn’t invite strangers to my home. Ever.
“This way,” I said. I stepped toward the back exit of the clinic—a sturdy door near the supply room that led to the narrow driveway behind the building. The late afternoon sun still hung warm in the sky, but a light breeze stirred the leaves of the oak and maple trees lining the property, carrying the faint scent of freshly mown grass and dry earth.
Gideon followed closely as I moved along the concrete path separating the clinic from my house, which sat quietly a few steps away. The yard was neatly maintained, with trimmed shrubs and a patch of lavender blooming by the porch.
