A sudden clattering sound shatters my nerves.
I'd fallen asleep on the bench, head dropped forward on my chest, pen poised over the unfilled form, the clipboard balanced on my knees. It is this, sliding from my lap to the tiled floor with a sharp racket of plastic, that startles me awake
I straighten, pushing my gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, and wince at the kinks that pinch my neck and back. Blinking at the dog-shaped clock on the wall, I see that nearly two hours have passed.
No wonder I can't feel my legs.
Bending to retrieve the clipboard, I set it carefully on the bench and then rise stiffly to my feet. I spend several minutes pacing the room, restoring the flow of blood to my tingling limbs, and then stretch the tightness from my back. Catching sight of my reflection in the dark window, I frown.
As is my custom, I'm dressed in neat, professional attire: light gray slacks, a dark gray fitted shirt, a waistcoat, and a tie. Usually, there's not a line out of place, not a button undone. Now, I look like I dressed out of last week's laundry hamper.
Doing my best to smooth out the wrinkles, I finally glance at my face.
Like my siblings, I have amber-colored eyes, which look a little odd against the browned caramel tone of my skin. My hair is short and dark, and my features are trim, neat, and soft: a short, slightly wide nose, a small but full mouth, a rounded chin and a refined jaw. I look younger than I am, and the only thing I really like about my appearance is my eyes. Their odd color and almond shape lend them a sharp, focused look, although they're hidden behind my glasses most of the time.
At the moment, even my eyes have lost their appeal, and all I see in my reflection is a short, disheveled little failure of a man.
Giving him a sneer, I sit back down and return to the form, filling it out with something closer to my usual style: quick, efficient, and unemotional. I use my brother's address, and the rest is easy enough.
I've just finished this task when I hear a door open somewhere out of sight and quick footsteps on the tiled floor, and then a man rounds the corner and fixes his eyes on me.
Like the women who'd relieved me of the dog, he wears teal scrubs, and he carries a sheaf of papers.
He's also gorgeous.
I so rarely experience attraction, it always takes me by surprise. Sex and gender have no influence, but whatever strange mix of things does appeal to me, I am presented with it now.
Tall and toned, his skin is the color of cream and his hair is burnt auburn. It's long and wavy and falls over his left shoulder to just below his collarbone. His eyes are the same color as his hair—a dark, reddish-brown—with a slight downward slant beneath dark, level brows. A refined nose, sensitive mouth, and sharp jaw complete his face, along with a dark dusting of stubble—thicker around his mouth—that trails down his throat. My eyes are drawn by this to his neck, which is broad and strong and yet strangely vulnerable above the low collar of his medical shirt. I can imagine him as an ancient Celtic warrior, broadsword in hand, bound for battle, beautiful but fated to fall.
Dragging my mind from my strange fantasy (as a scholar of language, I'm prone to such things) I blink, suddenly aware that I'm staring, and that the beautiful man has been speaking to me and I haven't heard a word he's said.
"I'm sorry," I say. "Could you repeat that, please?"
His lovely eyes narrow with something like displeasure, and his expression is borderline hostile. I wince. I know how annoying it is to have an important sentence met with a blank stare and a request to repeat oneself.
After an uncomfortable pause, he speaks again. "I said that your lad's doing fine, and he'll be ready to go home soon. I just want to go over some things with you first."
He is a Celt, I realize, with a bizarre thrill. His accent is slight, but definitely Scottish. "Some things?" I ask, pushing my glasses up my nose and sitting up as straight as I can.
"Yes. Here," he sits beside me, showing me the papers he holds.
It's a detailed list of everything that's been done to the poor dog over the last two hours, and exactly how much each item will cost.
In an act of self-preservation, I quickly stop listening again and my eyes settle on the top of the form, where I see the attending veterinarian's name: ROSE THORNE.
I allow myself an internal laugh at the expense of someone whose parents had either a poor, or a sadistic sense of humor.
"...So, once that's done, you should be good to take him home," the man is saying. "Although we do have a few questions for you first."
"Questions?" I repeat, straightening my glasses again, and peering up at him in surprise.
"Yes, Mr..." he leans close, almost across me, and looks at the form on my clipboard, which lies on the bench at my side. "Hunter. Your boy's a tad malnourished—dehydrated, too, and his coat's a mess. That's a poor way to keep an animal, sir. Did you take his collar off before you arrived? I'd like to see proof of his license, if you don't mind. What's his name, by the way?"
"Oh, um..." I stammer. It seems the receptionist failed to pass along the all-important fact that the dog isn't mine. "I don't know his name. I mean, I don't know anything about the dog at all. I just ran him over."
If anything, Mr. Celt's look gets even more unfriendly. "But you're paying his bills? Why's that then?"
"B-b-because the receptionist told me I had to, or you'd let him die!" I exclaim, feeling my face heat with embarrassment and indignation. That's not exactly what the receptionist said, I realize, but that's what I'd inferred.
He stares at me a moment, mouth compressed in a line and thin nostrils flared.
"Well. That's a damn fine way to waste a man's time," he says, and bolts to his feet so abruptly it makes me jump.
Then he stalks over to the reception desk, where he has a low but heated conversation with the woman behind it.
When he returns, I see that her face is very red.
"You must excuse Alice," he says. "She's...new. It's true we need a card on file to treat an animal, but not if it's a stray. We treat it and then hand it off to the local Humane Society. They'll foot the bill. You're free to go."
The way he says it makes me feel like I've narrowly escaped the guillotine at the hands of some overzealous gendarme.
"What about the dog?" I ask. "Will it be okay?"
He narrows his eyes at me again. "As I've just explained—in some detail, I may add—Mr. Hunter, the dog is fine. A broken leg, some bruised ribs—he'll be up and running again in no time at all."
"Oh, that's...good," I say, taking off my glasses and rubbing my eyes.
Despite my accidental nap, I'm still exhausted, and the double relief of learning I'm not a dog-killer and also will not have to pay an enormous vet bill has struck a raw emotional nerve. I'd like to cry, but I'm not about to do so in front of my warrior Celt.
"And, um, please pass on my thanks to Dr. Thorne," I say. "She clearly does good work."
When I adjust my glasses once more, I find him watching me from beneath hooded brows. His head is tipped slightly back, and my eyes are drawn once more to the pale length of his throat.
"I'll do that," he says, in a dry tone. "I'm sorry you were made to wait."
Rising, I hand him the clipboard with the registration form. "I suppose you don't need that now," I say.
"No, I suppose we don't," he agrees, but he glances over it anyway.
"Noah."
"Yes?" I blink with surprise.
"I always liked that name," he says, indicating where I'd written it down.
"Oh." I clear my throat.
It's a little after three in the morning, and I look and feel like crap, but I decide to be bold. Now that I'll be living in Spring Lakes, I might run into him again, after all.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch yours. Your name, I mean."
For the first time, he smiles at me, and I see that he has white, even teeth, though his cuspids are a little long and sharp.
"Dr. Ambrose Thorne," he says, "at your service."
I glance quickly at the papers in his hand and see that, indeed, now that he's shifted his grip, the letters AMB precede ROSE.
My face is so hot it's a wonder that my glasses haven't fogged with steam.
"Oh! Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance," I say, and immediately hate myself.
I accept that I'm something of a freak, but must I be an absolute freak, absolutely all of the time?
His smile widens slightly. "You're a bit of an odd duck, aren't you, Noah?" he says, driving the sharp point of my own opinion deep into my heart, and pats my arm. "Best be on your way then. You look like you could use a good rest. Oh, and if you change your mind, you can always come back and claim what's yours."
"What's...mine?"
"The dog," he says, and then, seeing my bewilderment, clarifies. "If you decide you want him. It'll be a few days before we turn him over, anyway. He's got no microchip, and it's clear he's either abused or a stray. I've got no qualms letting you take him if you can give him the love he deserves. And if you can pay, of course," he adds, raising one thick, level brow.
I swallow. I don't know why, but it feels like he's teasing me, and not in a kind way. "I'll think about it," I say, and do my best to meet his eyes and smile.
A fleeting glance and a twitch of my lips are all I can manage, and then I make my escape, retreating from the almost unworldly fluorescent glare into the darkness of the night—or the early morning, at this point—and then to the safety of my car.
A short time later I'm back on the road, intensely glad to be very nearly home and to leave midnight misadventures with stray dogs and oddly beautiful men behind.
To my distress, I find that neither is so easy to forget, and both continue to occupy my mind with stubborn persistence, like the strange characters in a curious and disquieting dream.