"Good morning," I whisper to the sleeping Harry as I rise so early on Tuesday morning that the rooster hasn't yet stirred. Modesty has nothing to do with sneaking out of bed before the popstar is awake. I need to wee, but also I need to get my records in order in the clinic. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I grab blue jeans, a bra, and a plaid overshirt. As I'm tiptoeing out of the door, I remember I'm not wearing panties. A normal woman might decide to go commando (or "free lippin'" as I've heard it called, which just makes me cringe on multiple levels), but that's not possible. There are simply too many circumstances where I've found myself having to strip to my underclothes in my line of work.
Quickly, I tiptoe back to my dresser, withdrawing a pair of granny panties and exchanging my sexy bra for a more reasonable sports bra. The man might be back for more tonight, but first I've gotta get through the day, and that means sensible clothing. The dogs raise their heads when I approach, but only Boomer jumps up, his paws quickly planting themselves square on my tits.
"Boomer. Down," I command in a half-whisper, and the dog complies. "I promise I'll give you all the love in a minute. Just let me get dressed." Making my way to the downstairs bathroom, I use the water closet, noting on my phone that it's not yet time to remove my cervical cap. Another couple of hours to make sure the sperm have zero chance of getting to their desired permanent home.
When I'm fully dressed, I realise I've not carried socks down with me. Dammit. Longingly, I glance up at my bedroom from the bottom of the stairs. Nope. Can't risk it. If he wakes up while I'm upstairs, I'll be forced to have my wicked way with him.
What? I don't make the rules.
"Psst," I whisper to the dogs, "Come on." With those words and a gesture, I find the dogs following directions – and me. I lead them outside and wait while they sniff around and do their business. Disposing of their messes, I softly whistle for them to come into the clinic. Once on the other side of the office door, where I'm less afraid of waking Harry, I kneel down and pet each of them.
"Hi. How are you, my sweet Piper? Did it hurt your arthritis to sleep on the sofa? Let me see." I massage her legs and hips for her, and she licks at my face, a sure sign that she's grateful for my hands on her muscles and joints.
Next, I turn to Shortbread. "Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well last night? Chase some squirrels in your dreams?" Her tail wags continuously, letting me know she's happy – whether that's related to the squirrels in her dreams or the fact that she's getting petted, I couldn't say. And she's not sharing.
Finally, I turn to Boomer. "Getting more time here than at your own home, aren't you? Do you like it here?" I make sure to scratch behind his ears, and when his right leg gets moving, I am aware that he's a member of the ranks of pets who love getting scratches. Standing, I dust my hands on my jeans and whistle softly. "Let's get you breakfast."
All three follow me to the cabinet where I keep the food, their tails indicating their excitement. Picking up the bag, I pour food into the timed dispensers for Shortbread and Piper before pouring a healthy portion into a third bowl for Boomer. My dogs sit on their haunches, whining and staring at me with their pleading eyes until I give in and add a handful to each of their bowls. They'll get a full portion when the timer goes off later, so this is an extra treat that they don't often get, and they're not even remotely shy about accepting the gift.
Laughing, I replace the bag in the cupboard, making sure the door is tightly closed so they can't get to it. Not that mine would attempt it, but I could see some other dog (Cough! Cough! Boomer!) encouraging them to break the rules. And they're weak-willed ladies.
Like me.
My body still zings in all of the places he'd touched me last night, and I dance to my desk. I hadn't been lying about the soreness, but using certain muscles after a time of disuse always makes you notice them more. Not that I'm complaining. Nope. Not one bit. I was just thinking it would be really nice to give those muscles a good workout over the next – oh, say month or so.
But I suspect Harry will consider this a one-and-done. Why would he want more sex with me when there are millions of women he hasn't yet slept with?
Searching the drawers under one of the steel tables, I rejoice upon finding a pair of socks. Sure, they're bright orange. And they look to be entirely too large for my feet, but they're also the only thing available so I add them to my lower extremities before slipping into my work shoes – you know, the comfortable but ugly-as-fuck ones.
Recalling the messages Harry had taken for me, I pencil in the Cockburn's cockapoo. I'll call them as soon as the sun comes up. Surveying my desk, I sort the bills in one pile, the charges my cousin will have to input when she comes in tomorrow in another stack, and examine what's left. There are a few catalogues with equipment I'd love to buy, and I use sticky notes to indicate my favourites.
When the phone rings, I know it's my dad performing the same ritual in his office back home.
"Dad!" I pick up my mobile on the second ring.
"Hallo, me bonnie wee lassie." I can picture his mischievous smile as he greets me. "Tell me about your toughest case this week."
This is a weekly tradition for us, catching up on the phone every Tuesday morning. After he shares his toughest case – an English bulldog that needed a Caesarean, and I share my own – the case where I nearly killed a terrier by giving it blood pressure medicine for a severe allergic reaction – we catch up with news about Mum and my siblings.
"You'll be coming home for Christmas, right, Anna?"
"Of course, Dad. Hard to believe it's only a couple of months away."
"It will be here in no time," he retorts sagely, as though I hadn't just said almost the same thing. "I'm going to need you here. Iain is bringing home some new fella he met at a conference of solicitors."
"A conference? I didn't know solicitors held conferences."
"Apparently they do because your brother met and fell in love with someone at one."
Bully for him. Thank goodness I can count on my school teacher sister to remain single. She's dated every male in Drumjohn and still hasn't found a mate.
"I'm sure his new boyfriend will be no bother."
My father 'humphs', indifferent to the fact that my brother is gay, but distressed that he's bringing a non-family member to a family event. Have I mentioned my dad's world is a bit outdated in very lopsided ways?
"Skye and I will be the singletons as usual."
"Not exactly," he harrumphs. "Your sister is dating, and your mum seems to think it's serious."
No. No. No. I don't have the energy to go home for Christmas and be the only single one at the table. Unwrapping presents will be interminable if I have to watch joint romances unfold. "She's dating someone from Drumjohn?"
"You'll need to ask her that question, Anna. You know I'm no poke nose."
Except he'd literally just gossiped by telling me my siblings have boyfriends. Sigh.
Hearing the door between the clinic and my house open, followed by footsteps, I wrap up the conversation with my dad. "I'll make time to call them this week and get all the juicy details, and if you think I'm going to share those with you, you'd better think again." I taunt my parent who merely laughs.
"Mo ghaol ort."
"Mo ghaol ort, Dad."
Harry arrives at the door to the office just as I'm hanging up the phone. "That was an early call," he comments, leaning on the door jamb. "Putting off your daytime lover now that you've had the best sex of your life?" He raises an eyebrow, and although I know he's teasing, my body gets heated at the sound of his voice and the shape of his lips.
"Ew, no. That was my dad." I stand and stretch, using my mobile to phone the Cockburns' who are eager for their Jocko to be seen. I tell them to bring him in right away.
"And how is your dad this morning?" Harry asks once I'm off the phone, approaching me with that seductive face that had kept me quite satiated last night.
I hold up my hand to stop him, trying to give him a safe out. "You don't have to do this, Harry."
Genuine confusion sweeps across his face. "Do what?"
"Pretend to be dating me – like we're in some kind of relationship."
That muscle in his jaw ticks, and I know he's annoyed. "I beg to differ. First of all, I wasn't pretending. I am truly happy to see you this morning. Secondly, we are in a relationship. Whether that relationship ends after one night — well, that seems to be up to you. Say the word, and I'll take Boomer home, and we can call last night a one-night stand."
Curious, I tilt my head at him. "You want more?"
"Only if you do." His tone is harsh, likely because he's clenched his jaw so tightly that a piece of coal shoved there – well, you get the picture.
My heart softens. "Do I want more? Yes. More sex. More of that 'househusband' thing you were doing yesterday. But that's where I draw the line, Harry. I am not having anything other than a fling with you. Let's just set that as a boundary now. It will make me miss you less when you return to London to do your popstar thing."
The muscle in his jaw loosens, and I notice that his entire body relaxes. "So we're going to keep using each other for sex?" He adds a smirk to the question, and my insides get all gooey.
"Trust me –" I swing my hips as I approach him. "-- when I tell you –" Placing one wrist over his shoulder, I run my finger from his belly button (covered in a t-shirt unfortunately) up his chest before capturing his chin. "-- there's no one I would rather fuck on a regular basis." My lips are a mosquito's length from his when I hear the intake of breath behind me.
"Dr. McInroy! Get control of yourself."
Startled, I glance over to spy the Cockburns with their cockapoo, whose cock is likely not the only one currently burning. Mrs. Cockburn has scolded me with her tone and words, and I can't argue as I've been caught red-handed. At least we're fully clothed. A sheepish expression passes over Harry's face, and he steps away from me. My hands fall to my sides, and I struggle to recover from the ice bath of their interruption.
But then I recall my job, and I kneel down to Jocko. "Hi there, mate. Let's get you all fixed up, shall we?" Picking up the dog, I carry him into the exam room, only glancing wistfully at Harry one time.
Okay. Maybe twice.
But in that glance, I have a portrait that I'll carry with me all day. He's wearing the same clothes as yesterday – a vintage t-shirt over a pair of raggedy, holey jeans. His hands are folded across his chest, and his chin bobs as his eyes narrow while he conveys quite clearly that there's no one else he'd prefer to be fucking either.
Following Jocko's exam and diagnosis (Malassezia Pachydermatis, aka a yeast infection), I return the remainder of the calls on my voicemail as well as the messages Harry had jotted down for me. After performing a simple neutering on a tomcat who had been terrorising the other household cats, I pop into my home to run upstairs and remove my cervical cap. I'll leave it out and put it in after my shower tonight. You know, just in case I find myself needing it.
Not that I'm expecting sex tonight.
Okay, that's a lie.
As soon as I cross into the house, I know Harry isn't around. It's too quiet. That stillness that comes from an empty space. Feeling a tad bereft but also picturing what he might be doing – writing a song? practising his dance moves? cooking? shopping? – my body tingles because whatever he's doing, it isn't having sex with someone else. We have plans after all, despite the purpose of his trip being to make zero plans.
Putting away my cervical cap, I check my hair in the mirror. The chignon has held overnight, taming my curls into a chic professional look. People might think I'm an actual veterinarian if I keep looking like this.
Piper and Shortbread have followed me, and even they seem thrown by the absence of Harry and Boomer. But let's face it – none of us are howling at the temporary loss. We've got too much to do.
Afternoons are my time to be out with patients on farms, and today I've got quite the list, starting with some Ayrshire cows that need to be checked for pregnancy. By the time I park the truck back at the house long after the sun has gone down, I'm bone-tired.
"Come on, girls," I call to my golden retrievers who have fallen asleep in the back. "You've worked as hard as I have today, haven't you?" I grab the bundle of foul-smelling coveralls from the truck and rinse off my wellies with the hosepipe. "Your turn." The dogs gather and wait for me to wash their feet and legs which are covered in mud, muck, and manure.
The instant I enter the house, my wellies in one hand and my stinky coveralls in the others, the dogs trailing at my feet, I'm greeted by a smiling Harry, again in the same apron. Tonight, he's holding a drink in his hand, and he smiles that great grin – the one with the dimple that also brings out the crinkles in his eyes.
It dissolves almost instantly, and I feel my heart squeeze a little at taking the light out of this man's eyes.
"What?" I ask, both curious and fearful of his answer.
"Good God, woman! You smell like a...like a...I can't even think of what."
I laugh joyfully at his response. "Harry. This is what I smell like most nights coming home. That's why I save the fieldwork for the afternoons, and why I shower at night. Give me a few minutes to drop these in the washing machine –" I hold out the packet of disgusting clothes "because they're what's causing the worst of the stench. Then I'll take a shower and come join you. But first, give me a sip of that please." Using my chin, I gesture to the glass he's holding, and he brings it to my lips so I can lick off some of the salt and sip at what appears to be a very delicious fake margarita. "Thanks. That hit the spot."
He sets the drink on the kitchen counter, then reaches for my wellies. "I'll put these away if you want to drop those somewhere where they can't kill living things with the stench wafting from them."
"Oh, double thank you," I smile. "I could get used to this."
"Yeah?" He raises his chin in my direction, giving me a look that makes me melt. "How about I join you in that shower?"
"Ohhhh...now you're speaking my language, you handsome devil."
As soon as the foul coveralls are swirling in the washing machine, I command my dogs to "stay", only then realising that Harry hasn't brought Boomer with him. "Where's your dog? Fed him too many grapes for me to save this time?" At Harry's guilt-riddled face, I feel bad. But only a little. "What? Too soon?" I tease.
"Boomer is perfectly safe and alive, I'll have you know." He shuffles his feet, stuffs his hands in his pockets, looks everywhere but at me and finally says, "I was thinking tonight we might have dinner at my place."
Ohhhhh....This is a turn of events I hadn't expected, and my insides churn with excitement and nerves. When we arrive at the top of the stairs, Harry plants his hands on my hips and captures my lips in a kiss that is searing.
"You were right. It was the bundle that smelled the worst. You smell like –"
"Be careful what you say next, Harry," I warn.
Offended, he wrinkles his nose. "Hey! I was going to say that you smell like clean sweat, hay, and just a bit of animal magnetism." With that, he delves deeper into the kiss as we trade tongues, swap spit, and arouse each other with hands, lips, and breath.
"Sex first or shower first?" I ask politely as I strip off my plaid overshirt and my t-shirt, standing before him in my sports bra.
"Definitely sex," Harry responds, stripping out of his clothes with very little ceremony involved.
When I drop my jeans to the ground, Harry pauses from unzipping his own. "Those knickers are –"
"Not to be mentioned by you," I insist. "If you knew how many times I've had to strip to these granny panties in front of a bunch of old men, you'd be grateful that I'm wearing them."
His eyebrow raises, and he shakes his head. "Nah. I'll be more grateful when you're not wearing anything at all – especially those knickers."