The Man Behind The Mask. Barbara Hannay

not to like attachments. On the other hand, she was already attached to the iguana, and God knew there were lots of lizards around.

      “My paying for the procedure is no big deal,” he explained patiently. “You could be having cognitive difficulties, postconcussion, that were making it hard for you to make a decision.”

      “I don’t like iguanas. But that doesn’t mean I want to have the decision whether he lives or dies in my hands.”

      “Well, now it’s not. There. Solved.”

      “Oh!”

      “Irritability,” he said sagely. He knew it would be wiser to keep that observation to himself, but he was surprised to find a part of him was actually enjoying this little interchange.

      “I am not having cognitive difficulties! And I’m not irritable.”

      He raised an eyebrow.

      “It’s justified irritability, not knocked-over-the-head irritability!”

      “It just seems a teensy bit out of proportion. I mean, I thought you’d be—” he considered saying grateful, and then said “—happy. I just don’t see that it’s a big deal.”

      “You paying is a big deal. I’ll pay you back,” she said stubbornly.

      “Consider it a donation.”

      “No.”

      “You really need a board of directors to answer to.”

      “And it’s you making the decision that’s a big deal.”

      “Wouldn’t it be forgivable if I made the decision based on the presumption you might be having cognitive difficulties? Even if you weren’t?”

      He blinked at her. He happened to know he had eyelashes women found irresistible. He wasn’t opposed to using them as a weapon when backed into a corner.

      She stared at him. Blinked herself. Looked away.

      “Talk about cognitive difficulties,” she muttered. He was pleased that she suddenly lost her desire to argue with him. Still, she couldn’t just give in! Let him have the last word!

      “I will pay you back.”

      “Fine. I’ll take it out in milkshakes. A lifetime supply. I like licorice.”

      “A lifetime supply? How much is the procedure going to cost?”

      Seeing the worry creasing her brow, he cut the amount in half and was rewarded for his little lie when she looked relieved.

      “There is no such thing as a licorice milkshake,” she said.

      “That just shows you’ve never been to the Moo Factory.”

      “Besides, if you think other people making decisions for you is no big deal, I’ll pick the flavor of your lifetime supply.”

      It was all turning lighter. He could tell it was against her will. Maybe she was experiencing cognitive impairment!

      “Have at it,” he said drily. “I’ve never met a flavor of ice cream I didn’t like.”

      “Apparently,” she muttered. “Licorice? Yuck!”

      He held open the clinic door for her and she went outside to the parking lot, eyed his vehicle suspiciously. “Where’s Luke?”

      “At the last minute, he said he didn’t want to come. He asked us to bring something back for him so he could keep working. And he asked me to bring something back for Deedee, too. And Ranger. He said he’d pay for theirs.”

      “My nephew, Luke Caviletti, said he’d pay?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You’re sure? He’s the kind of gangly kid with red hair.”

      But her attempt at humor was meant to cover something else and it failed. Her face crinkled up. She did a funny thing with her nose and squinched her eyes hard.

      The facial contortions didn’t help her gain control. He could tell she was making a valiant, valiant effort not to cry again. The tears squeezed out anyway.

      He wanted to just shove his hands in his pockets and wait it out. But he was helpless against what he did next.

      “Maybe…I…am…having…just…a…little…bit…of…cognitive…impairment.” She was scrubbing at her eyes with that balled up tissue.

      He went to her and pulled her against him, wrapped his arms around the small of her back and held on tight.

      He could feel the wetness soaking into his shirt. And the warmth oozing out of her body.

      And her heart beating below his.

      Now, for his own protection and for hers, would be a great time to confirm that emotional changeability was definitely a sign of concussion.

      But somehow those words about the proven correlation between concussion and emotions got trapped in his throat and never made it to his mouth.

      Somehow his one hand left the small of her back, went to her hair and smoothed it soothingly.

      That feeling was back.

      Of being alive.

      Only standing there in the vet’s office parking lot, with sunshine that felt warmer after the months of rain, with her body pressed into his, Brendan was aware he didn’t feel resentful of waking up, of being alive. Not this time.

      Not at all.