It's been two weeks since Oliver started helping me train Obi and I don't know what I'd have done without him. Obi is still a pup, so he still chews the corner of the sofa and tries to bolt out of the front door as soon as I pick up his leash and God forbid, I drop something on the floor while I'm cooking. Obi will demolish it in two seconds. But he's also making a lot of progress at the park. He's controlling his impulses when it comes to people on two wheels, other dogs, squirrels, children. Especially children. He loves them.

Oliver is coming by this evening to work on Obi's impulse control when it comes to the front door. The last thing I need is him bolting because I've been stupid enough to leave it open when I take the trash out or when I'm collecting packages. It's not unusual for my mind to forget those details.

Mom's voice is like a haunting echo.

"Oh for goodness sake Jen, it's like you just choose to turn your brain off."

"You didn't finish cleaning your bedroom, why have you started drawing?"

"You left the bloody tap running."

"It amazes me you managed to get that assignment handed in when you were messing around for the last two weeks doing anything but that."

Yeah, I get it, my attention span is a little. . . short. I've made it work though.

Oliver will be here at around five, which could definitely be considered dinner time, depending on how early you eat. Me, I close the kitchen at six. But it felt too. . . intimate to ask Oliver to have dinner with me, so instead, I've made a small spread of snacks. Cheese and crackers, some fruits, salami, some breads and dips and some lemon slice, since he said he loves lemon sorbet.

Girl dinner.

Obi sits under my feet at the small table in the kitchen, his nose in the air, sniffing with anticipation.

"There's nothing up here that's good for you," I tell him. One of the first things I'd done when I brought him home, was print lists with pictures of all the food he can't eat and stick it to the fridge. I was terrified of accidentally poisoning him.

Heading to the freezer, I tell him to follow me. "Here's a little something I prepared earlier, sir." I retrieve the rubber toy full of peanut butter from the freezer and his tail starts propelling. Oliver was right about the chew toys and lick mats. They keep him busy for a long time. Obi sits without being told and I hand him the toy, which he disappears outside with.

There's a knock on the door and I suck in a breath, walking past the passage mirror for a quick assessment. Loose linen pants, a pastel yellow baby tee. Casual but cute. Oh, I like this guy so much and I just know it's bad news. I'm hyper fixating.

I open the door and the entire reason we're doing this comes to fruition. Obi bounds straight past me and jumps at Oliver. It's a relief he's just as obsessed with this man as I am because it means he doesn't go further than the quick, strong embrace of perfect arms that sweep him up and step inside.

Jealous. . .

Oliver puts Obi down on the tiles once I've closed the door and when he straightens up, we're standing so close and he smells so good. He's holding a coffee cup, which miraculously didn't become victim to the attempted dog escape.

"Hey," he smiles down at me. "How's it all going?"

"As you can see," I say playfully. "There's work to be done."

He lightly laughs. "I meant with you."

My heart does the new bounce in my chest that I'm becoming familiar with when it comes to Oliver Jacobs. "Yeah, good. Obi, where did you even come from, go and get your chew toy."

He runs off again.

I gesture for Oliver to follow me down the short passage and into the kitchen slash dining room. It's small, but bright with windows looking out into the back garden, a sliding door that I keep cracked for Obi and warm wooden features paired with dark green cabinetry.

"I figured you might be hungry straight after work," I say, turning around to face Oliver, who is holding the coffee toward me. "That's for me?"

"It's pistachio," he says. "But it's also a decaf because I know you don't drink coffee this late in the evening."

I could kiss him. Passionately. My hand wraps around the cup and our fingers graze. "Thank you, Oliver."

He smiles. "I like that you call me Oliver."

"Is that not. . . usual?"

He shrugs, looking sort of perfect in my kitchen. The green tones suit his sun kissed skin. "Most people in my life call me Ollie."

"Is that what you prefer?" I ask, taking a sip of the decaf. It's so good and I take a quick peek at the cup to see where he got it from. Paws on Plaza.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. "I thought I preferred Ollie," he says, gaze fixed on me. "I think I just prefer the way you say. . .anything."

Someone get a mop, I am but a puddle.

"Ollie," I test it out, acting as if I'm so cool right now and not dying from that hard to ignore comment. Does he like me too? I can't be that oblivious. "Ollie, Oliver. Hmm, I think I'll stick with Oliver."

He nods, his smile warm and sincere. He looks around the room, sights landing on the table and his eyes widen. "I didn't even notice all of this," he says looking at me again, his attention sweeping me from head to toe. "I was too distracted. This looks great."

"There's even a lemon slice." I stand next to it and point at the table. "Because you obviously like lemon."

"It is one of my favourite flavours," he says, eyes landing on my yellow t-shirt.

I should definitely kiss him at this point because I'm under the impression it would be reciprocated. However, in a traditional sense, I refuse to make the first move.

Although, he might be worried that I'll freak out if he does make a move. He might be doing his best to be respectful and not assume I want him to kiss me. Hmm.

Neither of us burst this bubble with a kiss or a confession. Instead, we decide to eat and as always with Oliver, our conversation moves naturally. We talk about eating cheese and crackers in Italy, which sounds way sexier than my eating them in my kitchen. Oliver admits that's why he moved here, it reminded him of the vineyards in Tuscany. The more he tells me about his time there, the more I want to visit. My mind starts to create a life where he and I are honeymooning in Italy, visiting his family's successful estate, walking Obi through the rolling hills, our hands intertwined while the sun sets behind us.

I am losing it.

The conversation moves into what I know about vineyards after working for one of the biggest companies here in Healdsburg and then we're talking about work life balance and somehow that turns into a conversation about our favourite series that we never have time to watch and the next thing I know, it's dark outside and Obi is asleep on the living room floor, where we somehow all ended up.

Oliver looks over at the window, noticing how dark it is and then he checks his watch.

"Jen," Oliver scoots forward on the sofa. "I'm so sorry. . .we haven't even—"

"It's fine," I assure him.

He rubs his hands over his face, elbows resting on his knees. I sit forward to, we're close enough that I could graze his knee with mine if I reached down and gave Obi a pat. He's nestled right between us.

"It's no big deal, Oliver," I insist. "We can do the training another time?"

He's quiet, staring at the ground.

"Or not. . ." I add, because I don't want him to feel like he has to keep doing this for me.

Suddenly, he stands up, shoving his hands into his pockets and the look on his face when he stares down at me is that of someone who has just heard something truly devastating but can't comment on it.

I stand up as well, a little confused.

"I um—" I start but have no idea what to say. This took a major turn.

"Jen," he says, his words almost a pained whisper. "I have a rule."

"Okay. . ."

He clenches his jaw and ducks his head. "I uh, I don't date my patients."

Knife to the heart. "Well good." I chuckle. "They're animals."

He looks back up at me with humour behind the anguish. "You know what I mean."

I nod, slow and not wanting at all to admit that I'm disappointed.

He takes a step closer. "I like you," he says. "I have liked you from the moment I saw you in that parking lot. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. And then you were funny too and sweet and I was hoping I could handle spending time together as friends but. . .I can't."

I'm emboldened by his confession and take a step closer, pinching the bottom of his shirt between my fingers.

"Friends it isn't then."

I tip toe, bringing my lips close enough to his that I can feel the hum of our skin, but I wait, letting him decide whether he wants to do this.

I hear him swallow hard, watch the way his gaze moves over my face, down to my mouth, the pinch in his brow, the way his lips part and close and part again.

Then his mouth is on mine and one hand wraps in my hair and the other grips my lower back, drawing me close against him. This is genuinely the best kiss I have ever experienced. His tongue rolls against mine, my hands move up and over his shoulders. I never want it to end.

But it does.

Oliver breaks the kiss and steps back, his chest rising and falling as hard as mine is.

"Jen, I can't. . ."

Having had a little taste makes this so much harder. Wasn't I the one who said I had no time for a relationship? I should be agreeing with him wholeheartedly.

"Yeah, okay."

"I don't want to ruin what we have." He doesn't sound convincing at all. "I just—there was—"

"Oliver," I interrupt him because I might start crying if he doesn't leave. "You don't have to explain. Just. . . it's okay. It's late. I should do some work before I go to bed."

His shoulders drop. "I'll. . . text you."

He's not going to text me. I'm not going to see him again until Obi needs to be seen.

Oliver leaves and for the first time, I let Obi into the bed to sleep beside me.