Rom-Com Collection (Part 2). Kristan Higgins

at the chance to use her sixth sense. I had even—and this had been the hardest sell of all—I had even convinced Noah to come and whittle little cats and dogs to sell, the proceeds of which would go to the local animal shelter. Ian’s three-person staff would all be there to help as well.

      If the advertising career didn’t work out, I could always do event planning, I thought as I surveyed myself in the mirror. “You’re very cute,” I said aloud. Smiled to prove it. Remembered what Ian had said about not needing to try so hard. Sighed.

      Going into the bedroom, I glanced at my rocking chair. The sunlight poured through my window, illuminating the honeyed tiger maple. I ran a finger over the back, gave it a little push to see it rock, its smooth, gentle movement never failing to charm me. It was waiting, I thought. Waiting to be used for more than the occasional comfort session. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet.

      “Let’s go, Bowie!” I said, earning a high yip and three whirling-dervish circles from my beloved.

      Noah was waiting in the kitchen, scowling, a sweater vest over his flannel shirt—his version of dressed up.

      “You look very nice, Grampy,” I said.

      “What do you know?” he retorted. Then he recalled that he loved me and pinched my chin. “So do you, sweetheart. So do you.”

      “You haven’t been hitting the sauce, have you?” I asked.

      “That’s what I get for being nice,” he said, limping for the door. “Get in the damn truck. I’m driving.”

      When we pulled up to the vet practice, there were already people milling about, a few Brownies and Scouts, the DJ, Bethanne, the pet psychic. Hester was there, sitting under a tent, booming into her phone. “No, it’s completely normal, it’s the injections. Just tell your husband to lock up any weapons, okay? Let’s be on the safe side.” She jerked her chin our way.

      Fred, whom I’d bribed and blackmailed into being my helper, was running an extension cord to the PA system. He waved. “Hey, idiot!” I called, grinning.

      “Hi, dumb-ass!” he returned.

      “Have you seen Ian?”

      “He’s inside,” Freddie answered.

      Indeed he was. Gnawing on his thumbnail, staring out the window as if watching Mongol hordes descend. He was wearing a suit.

      “Come on, Ian,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. I grabbed his arm and towed him down the hall to his office.

      “Take off the suit,” I ordered.

      “This is unexpected,” he said.

      “Very funny. A suit, Ian?”

      “Well, I thought it would—”

      “Take off your tie,” I said, jerking the knot loose, “and get rid of the jacket.” I shoved it off his shoulders. His broad, manly shoulders. My movements slowed. Ian smelled good. Really, really good. Like rain, somehow, sharp and clean. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, slow and sure. Felt the heat from his body, which was just a fraction from mine. Those unexpected eyelashes, so blond and somehow sweet, softened his severe looks. There was a little smile in his eyes, and his mouth was very near. If I stood on tiptoe …

      “Doc?” Earl, my old vet tech buddy, appeared in the doorway. “Oh. Sorry.”

      Suddenly aware that I was basically undressing my client in his office, I jumped back a foot or so, maybe three, and cleared my throat loudly.

      “What do you need, Earl?” Ian asked.

      “The police officer was wondering if you could float him some etogesic,” Earl said.

      “Sure. I’ll be right out,” Ian answered.

      “Sorry again,” Earl said.

      “No, no!” I chirped. “Just a little … wardrobe malfunction.”

      “Whatever you say,” Earl said, winking. With that, he left.

      “Sorry, Ian,” I muttered, my legs still a little weak. “I just … you know. A suit is not quite the look we’re going for. Dockers would’ve been perfect, a nice blue oxford to match your eyes …”

      I was blushing. Big surprise.

      “Being male, I generally don’t think about matching my eyes,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice.

      “Well. You should. You have gorgeous eyes,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “Bowie has an eye the same color as yours, very clear blue, like the sky. But his other eye is brown. Like mine. Funny. One like yours, one like mine. Not that I mean anything by that. Okay. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

      Ian laughed, and the sound caught me right in the reproductive organs. Resisting the urge to pull a Bowie and flop on my back and offer myself up, I slapped my gaze out the window. Lust twisted hot and hard in my stomach. That was some laugh. Wow. Low and seductive and completely unexpected, that laugh.

      “How’s this?” Ian asked.

      I looked back at him. Swallowed. “Very nice. Much better,” I said. He’d taken off his tie and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves a few times, unbuttoned his shirt a couple. Would it be inappropriate to lick his neck? It probably would be. I cleared my throat. “Well, you’d better get out there,” I said. “It starts in ten minutes.”

      A FEW HOURS LATER, IT was clear that the pet fair was a huge success.

      Dogs of all kinds bounded in the area Freddie and I had designated as Dog Land. The obstacle course hadn’t worked so well, as none of the dogs seemed to get the concept and wanted only to mark their territory, but the Brownies had taken it over for their own purposes … Tess McIntyre had the best time thus far. The Merryatrics gave a rousing version of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Bethanne’s readings confirmed just how much everyone’s pets loved their owners. Noah carved animals, which Jody Bingham took upon herself to hand-sell. Kids ran around with their faces painted like tigers or dogs or Scottish warriors (that would’ve been Seamus, my dear godson, who wanted to look like William Wallace from Braveheart rather than Tigger). The drug-sniffing dog had found Freddie a “person of interest,” but Freddie made a compelling catnip argument, and the cop let Freddie pass after a quick lecture on the continued illegality of marijuana. Bronte had been in charge of Cause for Paws, which rescued cats. By telling people that she herself had found a new and wonderful life thanks to the wonders of adoption, she’d managed to pawn off fourteen felines thus far.

      And Ian had been great. Honest. A little stiff, sure, but he’d really tried. Shook hands, admired pets, fielded questions from Elmira Butkes, who was concerned that her twenty-two-year-old cat, Mr. Fluffers, wasn’t feeling “perky.” When Ian brought up the average lifespan of housecats (it’s thirteen), I gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs, and he changed his tune a little, saying maybe some B12 would do the trick. He even took the mike for a painful moment and thanked everyone for coming, encouraged them to have fun, not to forget to give what they could to the Humane Society. A little brief, a little formal, but quite … nice.

      “So how are you?” Annie asked, coming up beside me to survey the fair.

      “I’m feeling … ruttish,” I answered. She snorted appreciatively.

      “Who wouldn’t?” she said. “He’s hot. All dangerous and growly.”

      “Like a Russian assassin,” I murmured.

      “Exactly,” she nodded. “I’ll bet he could kill you with one finger.” We were best friends for a reason.

      “Hey,” I said, tearing my eyes off Ian, who was admiring a little girl’s newly adopted kitten, “Damien wants it floated to Dave that he’s ready to reconcile, okay? So consider it floated.” Damien had cornered me in my office yesterday with the aforementioned information, tired of being single after all of two months.

      “Roger