Page 1 of Hogging the Hunk

Chapter One

Milo

You can do it, Milo. Take the first step. Nothing’s going to jump off the shelf and bite you.

The breath I was holding screamed to be released. Being jumped at and bitten was kind of my job—a veterinarian would never last long if they couldn’t handle teeth. I could deal with everything an animal might throw at me and would have gladly taken a hundred charging bulls over what fresh torture I found myself in.

Standing at the precipice of the feminine products aisle.

I had already circled the aisle twice, pushing the grocery cart with a wheel that squeaked as though a screaming banshee had gotten stuck in the wheel. Why doesn’t someone go ahead and announce over the loudspeaker that Dr. Milo Fox is about to venture into foreign territory for the first time ever?

Stopping my cart, I positioned myself off-center of the aisle, pretending to study the deodorant display at the end cap. It would have only been slightly less embarrassing to explain to anyone passing why I was staring at coconut and sandalwood scented women’s deodorant than to be deliberating what to buy from the myriad of tampons and pantiliners further down the aisle.

I might be approaching my fortieth birthday, but inside, there was a resident prepubescent boy who was both terrified and was on the verge of giggling at the thought of holding a woman’s hygiene product, much less owning a package of them.

I straightened my shoulders and clenched my jaw. Grow up, Milo.

It wasn’t that I was intimidated by the array of actual products—I was not a squeamish man by nature, put to the test thousands of times in my chosen profession. Manure on my boots? Meh. Slobber flung on my cheek? All in a day's work. This was different. Menstrual pads were a representation of the aerial loop life had thrown me into. As a single man, there had never been a need to take a venture down this way.

That ended today.

Inhaling deeply, I gripped the handlebar of the shopping cart like I was hanging on for dear life and took the first step. I wasn’t immediately obliterated, as the nine-year-old within me suspected might happen, for being a man in a women’s-only section.

“So far, so good,” I muttered in a pathetic pep talk to keep me going.

I strode past the brightly colored packaging, overwhelmed with the array of choices, to where I assumed I’d be most discreet. Hunched over, studying my options from the center seemed like my best bet. Bringing my cart to a halt, the squeaky wheel cried loudly, heralding that I’d arrived.

Tentatively, I picked up a package, covered with bold lettering softened by a tropical bouquet. Were menstrual pads scented?

“Well, hello there, Dr. Fox.” A woman’s voice startled me. Try as I might to control my reaction, my whole body spasmed with a jerk and my heart took off at an unadulterated gallop. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Two seconds in and I’d been caught.

Of course someone I knew would see me when I wanted most to go unnoticed. That was how life had been treating me lately. Drop-kicking little surprises my way, just for fun. Sometimes, life was particularly cruel, and I was the one being drop-kicked.

Turning only enough to see out of the corner of my eye, I protected myself by limiting my profile. If I had long hair as I had for years during my pre-Dr. Fox era, I might have used it to curtain my embarrassment from Beckett Kent. The young woman I had met when I first took over the position as the one and only veterinarian within umpteen miles was now a doctor herself. In her case, of children, not animals.

There was a shred of camaraderie in our jobs—we probably had to deal with the same amount of biting and scratching.

Beckett smirked at me. Her eyes twinkled, no doubt because she’d been able to startle me. People always seemed delightfully surprised when they could find a chink in my otherwise unflappable demeanor.

Opening my mouth to correct her as a reminder that Dr. Fox was an unnecessary title, especially outside of work hours, I thought better of it. Keeping things professional might minimize some of my agony.

I offered her a crooked smirk, my lips moving up only on the side she could see. No use in going all wild and crazy with a full-on smile when I did not internally feel the joy of genuinely beaming. “Good afternoon, Dr. Kent.”

Her gaze momentarily flicked to the package of overnight pads clutched in my hands. “Aunt Flo giving you trouble? I hate it when she shows up early.”

My mind raced. Aunt Flo? Was she someone I should be familiar with? I knew almost everyone in the county, whether they own animals or not, and couldn’t recall a single woman who went by the moniker. “Aunt Flo?” I scratched my temple, as though it would stimulate my brain to work faster. “Is she that elderly woman who lives at the edge of the county? Always wins the grand prize for jam at the county fair and has a million house plants she talks about like they’re her children?”

“Come on, Dr. Fox.” Beckett snorted and shook her head. “You’re thinking of Aunt Millie, and yes, her jam is to die for. Aunt Flo is a euphemism for a woman’s menstrual cycle.”

I flinched. Again, not because of the biology, but my new proximity to the process.

Beckett cocked her head. “Don’t tell me a woman’s period makes you uncomfortable, Dr. Fox.”

“It doesn’t. It’s… just…”

How could I say aloud what being adjacent to the process meant when I could barely comprehend it myself?

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