Rising, I pad softly across the light hardwood floor in my socks and peek out the tall window beside the door. Sure enough, the handsome vet from my midnight mishap is walking towards the house, a scrappy young golden retriever in tow.

Though I recognize them, both dog and man look different than at our last encounter.

Dr. Thorne wears a faded blue t-shirt and jeans, and his long, red-brown hair is tied back. A few of the shorter locks hang free, framing his smoothly handsome face in loose curls, and my eyes are drawn from his strong shoulders to his trim waist, making me wonder what he does to get that form—swimming, maybe.

The dog hops along happily at his side, one of its front legs in a cast and a large plastic cone around its neck. Neither is doing much to slow it down, though, and it wags its tail with such enthusiasm that its whole body wiggles and shakes with pure energy in motion.

As the pair mount the porch steps, I quickly step aside from the window to stand (or hide) behind the solid shield of the door, wondering what on earth the vet could be doing here, and how he found me. Perhaps, I conjecture nervously, he means to make me pay for the dog's treatment after all.

Three sharp raps on the door make me jump, and I contemplate how long I'll have to wait before he gives up and goes away. After about fifteen seconds, he knocks again, and then calls out.

"Come now—I know you're in there. I saw you at the window. Open up. I haven't got all day."

Face burning with a mix of indignation and shame, I count slowly to ten, just on the off chance he'll think I really was in some other part of the house and not lurking right behind the door.

Opening it slowly, I do my best to sound nonchalant and vaguely surprised. "Doctor Thorne? What can I do for you?"

Dark, level brows raise a little over bright brown eyes.

"Actually, it's what I can do for you, Mr. Hunter. You certainly do make a man work for a good deed."

His slight Scottish accent catches at my ears, making it difficult to focus on the meaning of his words. "I beg your p-pardon?" I stammer, already off balance.

"You left something at the clinic the other night," he says. "Haven't you missed it yet?"

I look at the dog, confused. Surely this can't be standard. "I'm sure it's a lovely animal," I say, "but I'm in no position to take on that kind of responsibility right now."

The dog is sitting obediently at Thorne's side, though it's shivering with suppressed excitement and whines softly with every breath. When it sees it has my attention, whatever thread of self-control is holding it back snaps, and it launches itself at me with frenzied friendliness. Despite being a wolf, I'm really more of a cat person and take a step back as it wriggles, squirms, and sniffs eagerly around my legs, bumping me with its plastic cone.

"Dougal, enough of that!" Thorne snaps, the sudden sharpness in his voice making me start. There's something in it that sounds like Dane when he uses his alpha-gift, and I feel a stirring of my inborn urge to obey. "Come, sit!" Thorne commands, and after a final wriggly round of my legs, the dog does as he says. Rather than sit, though, it flops onto its back, squirming and kicking its legs in the air in an attempt to beg a tummy rub.

Thorne ignores it and turns back to me.

"I'm not here about the dog," Thorne says, watching me with a curiously keen expression. "I mean this."

He holds out a thin rectangle of brown leather, which I stare at for a moment before recognizing as my wallet.

"You must have a lot on your mind, not to notice it gone. Not surprising, I suppose, being in the middle of a move."

Taking my wallet from his outstretched hand, I look up at him in surprise. "How do you know I'm moving?"

His brows quirk a little higher. "As much as I like to think I'm a good person, hand-delivering the Lost and Found is not part of my routine. After we found the wallet, we tried calling the number you put on the form, but it's been disconnected. An old habit, maybe?"

"Oh... yes." I must've used my work number, which no longer exists.

"Also, it had a mid-west area code. Then, seeing the address you gave wasn't much out of my way, I figured I could drop it off in-person, only to discover you don't actually live there. That giant who does pointed me over here."

"That 'giant,' is my brother," I say, picking up on something derisive in his tone.

His brows lift again. "Brother? Christ. I guess you lost that roll of the genetic dice, eh?"

"Excuse me?" I'm pretty sure I'm being insulted, but not absolutely sure.

"Well, he's a mountain, and you'd barely qualify for featherweight class, little thing that y' are."

Yep. Definitely insulted.

"Actually, five-foot-six is around the average height for a man, globally speaking," I say sharply, and then internally cringe. Nothing says 'defensive' like having dry factoids readily at hand.

Thorne's smirk spreads to his eyes.

"Is it now? You learn something new every day."

"Thank you for returning my wallet, Dr. Thorne," I say in a flat, even tone. "I appreciate it. Have a wonderful day."

I turn, intending to go inside, shut the door, and wallow in post-social-disaster shame, but he takes a quick step forward and catches my arm.

"Wait up—I've offended you, and that's not my intent. I've a habit of speaking my mind, and my mind's not well-mannered, much of the time. Forgive me."

I look at his strong, pale hand on my arm, feeling the heat of it through my sleeve, and then make the mistake of looking up and meeting his eyes. He smiles, and this time the only thing sharp about it are his teeth, which are a little longer and pointier than usual—a bit like my brother Dane's, in fact.

To distract myself from his nearness, I look down at the dog again, which is still on its back, watching us with sad brown eyes from the depths of its cone. It seems to be playing the pity card now that it got scolded, and thumps its tail against the planks of the porch with a slow, restrained beat.

"So, you found the owner?" I ask.

"What? No, I don't think he has one. Hasn't for a while, anyway," Thorne says, frowning.

"Oh. But you called it something before. I thought you'd discovered its name."

"Well, I figure he deserves a name, and 'Dougal' seemed a good fit. He's a bit of a doofus, if you couldn't tell. I've decided to keep him myself, matter of fact, though I brought him today to see if you'd change your mind about taking him, after all. He's a sweet boy—handsome, too, once he cleans up."

He's looking at me when he says the last bit, and even though I know he's talking about the dog, my face grows uncomfortably warm.

"Even if I wanted a dog, I couldn't take him," I say. "As you've noted, I'm at loose ends at the moment."

Thorne gives me a thoughtful look. "You know, I've got a big place all to myself, and I'm in the market for a lodger—or a house-mate, or whatever you call it. Interested?"

If keeping me off-balance was a sport, he'd be a champion. "Uh... I..."

"Here," he says, pulling a card from his back pocket. "Think about it. I'm off tomorrow. Stop by if you want to see the place. No pressure—it's just a thought. You seem a decent sort, and I suppose I could do worse."

"Um... Thank you. That's very kind of you, Doctor Thorne."

"Oh, call me Ambrose," he says, flashing me his bright, sharp smile again. "All my friends do."

Once more, I get the feeling he's teasing me, but I can't be sure.

He releases his grip and pats my arm, and I realize he's been holding it the whole time. The absence of his hand feels oddly cold, and I resist the urge to rub the spot as a shiver creeps across my back.

"Well, I'll be going, then. Welcome to Spring Lakes, Noah Hunter," he says. "If you can't make it tomorrow, I'm off every Monday, and I usually spend it at home. So, until we meet again." He holds out his hand, and I shake it, my feeling of awkwardness fueled by the amusement I detect in his eyes.

Throwing me a final wink and a lopsided grin, he turns and trots nimbly down the steps, striding away towards his vehicle with the dog scrambling to its feet and tripping eagerly along at his heels.

He drives a white van, and when he opens the side door for the dog, I catch a glimpse of what looks like veterinary equipment.

With a wave, he gets in and drives away, leaving me standing there with a wallet I didn't even know I'd been missing in one hand, and an un-looked-for invitation in the other.

I study the address on the card.

411 Lakeside Avenue.

Having only visited briefly before now, I don't know the area well enough to have any idea what sort of place that might be. I'll ask Dane and Julian later, I decide. I'm not eager to put myself in the path of the good doctor again anytime soon, but his offer intrigues me, and I do need to find a place to stay before very long.

Grace and Chloe are generous and welcoming, but if old Ben Franklin is to be believed, I've got three days before they start wanting me gone.

More importantly, if what I'd witnessed that morning in the kitchen was something I could expect to stumble upon with any regularity, I'd be wanting me gone, too.