“Thanks for calling All Creatures. Your pet and livestock are important to me—”
Her voice, soothing like aloe, was melodic and sweet. He ate up each word on that recording, which she’d made personally instead of outsourcing to a voice messaging service.
“I’m either ensuring a patient with an appointment is getting the personal care they need or otherwise detained. Leave a message with your name and contact details, and I’ll be in touch on the next business day. If this is an emergency or you have an animal to surrender, no question’s asked, please text 05567. Thanks for your understanding.”
Yoda’s condition wasn’t critical. Travis could, at best, bandage the paw with Neosporin for now or, at worst, put the loathed cone around Yoda’s neck to keep him from chewing it until Skylar could fit him in next week. If she would fit him in.
The voice messaging beeped. He cleared his throat. What did he say? He could shoot the shit with anyone else all day, but with her, he was choking, like he was suddenly an awkward tween asking a girl to cotillion—The recording was lulling, waiting for him to talk.
“Hi, Skylar. I, uh, know we got off on the wrong foot. But, uh, it seems my dog’s jacked up his paw somehow. Chewin’ it raw. Eugene Lopez from V-Tech says you’re the best vet around. He’s my colleague and we’re codirecting a therapy program toge—Uh, that don’t really matter right now.” Stellar awkwardness, man. “Just, uh, hoping you can take a look at my dog.”
Home run for the lamest voice message alive,he razzed himself as he rattled off his number for her and was about to hang up—“Oh, this is Travis.”
Oh, as if she wouldn’t know. He rolled his eyes. Fuck. He rubbed his forehead and scoured his face. He was a dumbass. And even though it would be a waste of gas, he’d swing by her clinic in the morning, just in case she was a workaholic who clocked in on the weekends.
He opened his texts again. He’d left Toby hanging. His message still sat unanswered, his curser blinking. You gonna chicken out or go for her?