Page 6 of So Wrong It's Right

Isee stars. EverywhereI look, glittery, sparkling stars.

The reception desk at Dr. Anderson’s veterinary clinic looks like it is possibly manned by a teenage girl. Every accessory on her desk is bedazzled with something shiny. There are paper stars hanging from the ceiling with pictures of well-loved pets in the center of each. A bulletin board sparkles with star-shaped push pins. A pen cup is surrounded by a dusting of glitter on the counter below it. Even the paperclips have...shapes and sequins.

I shake my head.

How does anything get accomplished in such a chaotic atmosphere?

Dr. Anderson insists that Stella Stone is a treasure. That she couldn’t run the office without her.

I have some serious doubts about that. Reception is an area I don’t know much about, but it is supposed to run efficiently. It’s the first thing clients see, so it should be professional and understated. It should help calm any agitated pet owners with a sense of competence.

But Dr. Anderson sure sings Stella’s praises, all but yelling “hallelujah” and “amen” at the end of every sentence when her name comes up. Something about not eating if Stella didn’t remind her to.

Everything else about the clinic is exactly the way I like it: orderly and neat. There are only two small exam rooms, but a good-sized surgical area. There are no other veterinary offices in town, but a different, mobile veterinarian takes care of most of the livestock in the area. He and Dr. Anderson refer cases to each other based on animal size.

I am a little surprised that Dr. Anderson prefers paper charts to the much more efficient digital charts like those I use in the city. I can certainly make do for a week, though. It isn’t as if there are specialized departments here like the other clinic. In addition to cardiology, dermatology, oncology, neurology, and internal medicine, my boss, Dr. Rivers, employs an acupuncturist and dog psychologist. I am looking forward to a week of getting back to the basics here in Brazen Bay.

But the city is where I belong. It’s easier to blend in. Life in a small town must be a lot like living in a fishbowl, and that is not for me. I prefer simple, professional relationships not complicated by a personal life. Which makes me boring, perhaps, but happy.

I date occasionally but am very upfront that I have no desire to enter into a deep, meaningful romance at this time—not that any woman has argued for it. People make me uncomfortable, generally, which is why I am a veterinarian to begin with. My parents, of course, have other plans for me. Plans that include grandchildren, at least that’s what they say every time I visit. As an only child, I am their one shot at them. But they must be used to disappointment in me by now. I’ve never been the son anyone could have wished for.

I suppose I’ll marry someday. Someone sensible. Someone who doesn’t expect romance and hoopla and a crazy courtship. Someone who would prefer a serious discussion about compatibility rather than a proposal on bended knee. Because that is the one thing I promised myself I’ll never do. Again.

I pick up the pen cup and wipe the glitter dust off the counter before replacing it. I have a feeling about this Stella Stone already. And it isn’t a good feeling. Impractical people are difficult to deal with for anyone, but especially me.

I shake off the negative feelings. I’m happy to spend the week on the bay. I’ve been wanting to take advantage of kayaking and hiking in the area but haven’t taken the time to visit here since I was a kid. Brazen Bay is the kind of small town I didn’t know still existed. One bar, one bank, one grocery store. Dr. Anderson is still in her office wrapping up her emergency travel plans, so I meander toward the kitchen/break room. Through the glass of the back door, I can see a woman in the brightest red coat I’ve ever seen struggling with the door. Judging from the dangling stars on her ears, I assume she is the infamous Stella.

She is grimacing at the door, and my eyes are drawn to her bright red lips. Paired with the bangs and a poofy hairstyle, she looks like she is going for that retro-‘50s housewife look—though she swears like a sailor at the jammed door and has a tattoo sleeve down one arm. The light glints off the diamond stud in her nose like she called it to her.

She looks up at me just as I turn the knob while she’s giving a mighty heave. Those bright red lips form an exaggerated ‘O’ of surprise as the door swings open and she tumbles into my arms.

I try to keep us upright, but she has a lot of momentum behind her, so I have to squeeze her to my body or we’ll end up on the floor.

All curves. She’s made up of soft, wonderful curves made to cushion a man and she smells like cherries. I’m upset with myself for noticing, but it only makes my instinct to pull her closer even stronger. This woman is trouble, of that I have no doubt. She is too loud, her clothes, her hair, her body. It all screams “look at me” when all my life I’ve tried to blend in seamlessly, quietly.

But for one glorious minute, in an awkward dance across a kitchen, I am more aware of Stella Stone than I’ve been of any woman in my life.

Including the one I’d asked to marry me.

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Stella

BOY, DO I KNOW HOWto make an entrance.

The wall of man that breaks my fall lets out a hearty “oomph” when I barrel into him, but he recovers quickly, gripping me tightly to keep us both upright. I grab his firm, wide shoulders and look him in the eye. He is either Superman before the phone booth or possibly...a burglar. I should determine which, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Do I know him? I know pretty much everyone in Brazen Bay, and he does look familiar. But I can’t quite grasp how, why, or what he would be doing in the office kitchen half an hour before the clinic opens.

His muscles bunch under my hands. Nicely. He is solid and well-built. And too put together to be a townie. Townies don’t wear ties except to funerals and weddings, and not always then either. It is sad that I am enjoying the proximity of a stranger so much. Apparently, the Year of Stella is taking its toll on my hormones.

While I am at a loss for words, the man doesn’t seem to be doing much better. We’ve stopped moving, but he hasn’t let go. And neither have I. We sort of just...stare at each other. His forehead wrinkles above the bridge of his nose as if he is consternated, a look I am well used to from my family, but his grip doesn’t loosen. No, the arms banded around me hold strong, and my heart does an uncharacteristic flip.

Goddess, I hope he isn’t a burglar.

His tan-colored tie is slightly askew, but I have a feeling that’s due to our impromptu tango and not his usual state of dress. Tall, check. Dark, check. Handsome, double-check, though not my usual type. His wavy hair seems a little too tame, and I want to muss it up. But when those eyes behind his glasses lock on mine, all thoughts float out of my head on cartoon clouds. His eyes seem to look right inside me, liquefying my bones and sending a zing of awareness right to my lady garden.

“You must be Stella.”

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