A Christmas Call of Duty (Sweet Christmas Kisses)

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Shay

I watch in amusement as snow begins piling up outside the clinic. I’ve seen enough white Christmases in my life to lose excitement for them, but if it helps ease my guilt for skipping the festival, I'll gladly take it.

I jump when I hear a crash from the corner of the room and look up in time to catch Brandon batting another ornament off the obnoxiously decorated tree Gladys insisted we put up the day after Thanksgiving. "Hey! Knock it off!" He meets my gaze with an unrepentant look, and I sigh, getting up to retrieve a giant plastic snowflake covered in glitter. "Sometimes I wonder who's the real Grinch around here."

My phone chirps with a text from Grandpa Mason, checking in to see if I'm still joining them for dinner. I type a quick reply, assuring him that I wouldn't miss it for the world. I may not be one for holiday cheer, but nothing is getting in between me and Grandma Mason's legendary Christmas manicotti. The silver lining of being single: no one around to judge me for having a cheat day.

That, and I like spending time with them. Even though their frequent gross displays of affection toward one another are quick to embarrass me now that I’m an adult. I didn’t have a normal relationship with my parents growing up, but at least my grandparents made it so that I had a normal childhood. Or what I can only assume was normal. I remember Grandpa being sad a lot, but Grandma never seemed to mind or worry. If anything, I think it just made her love him that much harder.

When I was a little girl, I had my own special perch on the staircase. I remember watching them slow dance around the kitchen late at night when I was supposed to be in bed, and I always thought it was strange there was never any music playing. But then, I’d see the way he looked at her. It was like she took all the parts of him that were broken and filled them with light. Like she made him whole again without needing to fix a thing.

Sometimes, I wonder if that’s what love is supposed to feel like. Letting someone in deep enough to see how flawed you really are and them still wanting you despite the ugly truth. Sounds pretty dreamy if you ask me. Dreamy and completely unrealistic if we’re basing it on any of the data I’ve collected in my twenty-six years.

Just as I'm about to slip my phone back into the pocket of my lab coat, a message from Dr. Weber flashes across the screen.

Festival's canceled. Blizzard warning issued. Close up ASAP and head home. Stay safe.

A rush of dread washes over me. Dodging the festival meant there was no chance of an awkward run-in with Zane, but now a blizzard? So much for getting any work done. I glance out the window again. It's coming down faster now, and the fat flakes of snow make it hard to see the road. A gust of wind rattles the clinic's sign, and I can barely make out the emergency number swinging below it. Suddenly, my decision to stay open feels less like dedication and more like foolish pride. I chew my lip, debating if I'll have time to run home and change before dinner. I'll need to grab an overnight bag, too, if I don't want to get stuck sleeping in a borrowed pair of Grandpa's boxer shorts. The thought makes me shudder.

Brandon lets out a disgruntled meow, and I look down. He's staring at me with his adorable puffy cheeks while his tail swishes impatiently. Right. He's probably hungry. I'll have to make a pit stop to grab his food at the very least. "Okay, okay," I mutter, reaching for my coat. "We're going. Let me do a final check and we can—"

The crunch of tires on gravel stops me in my tracks as a pair of headlights cut through the swirling snow, illuminating a truck pulling up out front.

So much for closing early.

A tall figure emerges from the driver's side, hunching against the wind as he makes his way to the passenger door. My irritation quickly dissipates as I watch him struggle to extract what appears to be a large German Shepherd from the vehicle. At least, I assume by his size that "he" is a him. Not that it should say much coming from a woman who's five inches shy of the national average.

The dog seems reluctant to move in its owner's arms, and I can almost hear the deep, muffled coaxing over the howling wind. Yes. It's definitely a "he." And despite the hazardous conditions, his movements are gentle, showing an obvious effort not to jostle his furry companion. As they navigate the short path to the clinic's entrance, my veterinary instincts kick in, and I rush toward the door to assist, letting my hand hover over the handle until they reach the steps.

I push the door open, ready to help, but the wind has other plans. A fierce gust catches the door, yanking it from my grip. I stumble forward, my feet sliding on the icy porch as I careen toward the man and his dog. Everything moves in slow motion as I brace for impact, silently cursing my lack of grace. But before I can face-plant into a stranger's chest, a strong arm shoots out, catching me by the elbow. In the same fluid motion, he manages to stop the flailing door with his foot.

For a moment, we're frozen in this awkward position of me, teetering on my toes, the stranger bent at an odd angle to accommodate both me and his canine cargo, and the door creaking in protest against the wind. "Don’t worry, I got you," a deep voice rumbles from beneath the scarf. "You okay?"

I nod, my face burning despite the cold. So much for making a professional first impression. As I regain my footing, I can't help but notice how easily he handled the situation. Must be nice to have the reach of a normal-sized human. "I’m okay,” I manage, taking a step back to usher them inside. “Sorry about that. Let's get you two out of this weather."

He follows me across the threshold, careful not to bump his furry companion against the door frame.

"Please, let me take your coat," I offer, slipping into my most capable—and professional—tone of voice.

He nods, shrugging off his snow-dusted jacket with one arm while keeping the other protectively around his dog. As he unwinds his scarf, I catch my first real glimpse of his face.

Oh.

My breath catches in my throat. The snowflakes clinging to his dark lashes melt almost as fast as any strength left in my knees. His jaw is strong, peppered with stubble that says he probably hasn’t missed more than a few days since his last shave. But it's his eyes that hold me captive. They're soft and green like emeralds and crinkle slightly at the corners when he smiles.

I realize I'm staring and quickly avert my gaze, hanging his coat up on a hook by the door with way more energy and focus than the task requires. Get it together, Shay. You're acting like this is the first attractive man to step foot inside your clinic. "So," I say, turning back to face him and hoping my cheeks aren't as red as they feel, "what seems to be the problem with our little friend here?"

"It's his front paw. I think it might be broken."

"Okay. Let's take him to the back and have a look." I lead the way to the exam room, hyperaware of the stranger's presence behind me. The jingle of the dog's collar mingles with the man's heavy footsteps, creating a rhythm that does nothing to calm my racing heart. "Right this way," I say, pushing open the door. "You can set him on the table."

He lowers the dog effortlessly, and I force myself to focus on the dog’s injured paw rather than the flex of muscles beneath his owner’s sweatshirt.

"I'm going to need to take a closer look," I explain, reaching for my stethoscope. "It might help if you make yourself comfortable. Sometimes animals can be sensitive to sudden movements, and—"

Before I can finish, he pulls his sweatshirt off overhead, revealing a glimpse of his perfectly chiseled, Herculean abs, followed by a sandy-colored t-shirt that falls like a curtain, signaling an end to my private viewing pleasure. My breath catches for the second time as he moves toward a chair in the corner. Only this time, I'm far from enamored. That shirt. It's a color and fabric I'd recognize anywhere, being that it's standard issue for... "You're military?" I blurt out, my voice sounding strangled even to my own ears.

He gives a perplexed smile that makes my stomach flip, and I chide myself for the sudden outburst. "Yeah. Is… that a problem?"

I clench my fists and swallow hard, trying to regain composure while that smile remains fixed on his stupid handsome face. "No, uh… of course not. So, what did you say was the cause of injury?"

Hercules starts rambling on about the dog's paw getting stuck in the roots of some old tree behind his parents’ house, and I nod, only half-listening. I know it may seem unprofessional, but I can't help the growing disappointment each time I catch a glimpse of whatever-his-name-is' shirt in my peripheral. As I check for any other possible signs of injury, my fingers brush against the cold metal of the dog's tags, and it dawns on me that I never even asked for either of their names. I tilt the metal tag and read the name on the collar. Jack. Cute name, but—Jack Ralston?

Sucker punch number two makes my stomach plummet. Ugh. This day just keeps getting worse. I cut him off mid-sentence, throwing my last shred of professionalism out the window with the rest of my hopes and dreams. "Ralston? You're related to Zane?"

His brow furrows. "Yeah, he's my brother. How do you know—"

"Your brother?" I echo, disbelief and frustration warring inside me. "Of course. Of course, you're his brother. Because clearly, the universe hasn't had enough fun at my expense today."

The stranger—Zane's brother—takes a step back, his hands raised slightly. "Whoa, hey. I'm not sure what's going on here, but—"

"What's going on," I snap, "is that your brother is—" I stop myself when I notice he’s now backing himself into the corner with a concerned look on his face. Great. Now, he probably thinks I'm a total basket case.

I take a deep breath and shoot Brandon a glare when he finally decides to poke his head in from around the corner. Some emotional support animal he's turning out to be. "Listen, uh…." I say, embarrassed I've gotten this far without asking for his name.

"Colt. Colt Ralston." Colt emerges from the corner, reaches out a hand, and there's that stupid smile again.

"Whatever. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that… your brother and I. We used to date, okay? And contrary to my sudden outburst, no. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure? I’m a great listener.” His voice is velvety soft, and his words wrap around my heart like a cashmere blanket. But no. Just… no. The last thing I need is to catch feelings for another soldier who’ll use his job as an excuse to blow me off.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes in front of a paying customer. “Listen, it's getting late. Why don’t you go wait in the lobby while I finish up in here."

"As you wish." Colt winks at me on his way out of the exam room, and I have to suppress a gag at the Princess Bride reference. This must be some kind of twisted joke Santa is playing on me.

Not funny, Santa. Not funny.

After completing the exam, I wrap Jack's paw and secure the bandage with a final piece of tape. "There you go, buddy. Good as new." Jack gives my hand a grateful lick that makes me smile. At least one Ralston has manners.

I scoop him into my arms and head toward the waiting area, praying that the heat from his body will melt the wall of ice forming around my heart at the thought of facing Colt again. "Alright, Mr. Ralston. It looks like Jack had a minor sprain. He should be fine in a few days, but make sure he doesn't—" The words die in my throat as I catch sight of the front window.

I crane my neck up and around the giant K-9 I'm still somehow carrying to see the solid wall of white obscuring everything beyond the glass.

Colt turns from the window, and for the first time since we've met, he's not smiling anymore. "Whoa, hey. Let me help you.” His expression shifts when he sees me carrying Jack, and like some knight in shining armor, he rushes to relieve me. Not that I need it. He probably has no idea that a girl like me lifts heavy regularly.

When he takes Jack, I cross the room with my mouth gaped open wide as the reality of the situation hits me like a bucket of ice water. Trapped. In my clinic. On Christmas Eve. With Zane Ralston's brother .

“Yeah so… I hate to state the obvious, Doc. But I don't think either of us is going anywhere tonight." He sets Jack down on the worn-out area rug, and Brandon perks his head up from his spot under the tree.

My mind races. "There has to be some way... I mean, I can't just—" But even as I protest, I know it's futile. Even if the roads were still drivable, venturing out in weather like this would be suicide.

I lock eyes with Colt, seeing my own resignation mirrored in his gaze. "Well," I say, forcing a brittle smile, "I hope you like instant coffee and stale dog biscuits because it looks like we're in for one heck of a Christmas Eve."