“Thought that was you,” he says through pants, giving his sweat-soaked T-shirt a tug away from his stomach, drawing my attention to cut biceps. “Here to see Harry?”
“I was. I’m on my way back to the clinic now.”
He points in the opposite direction. “Isn’t it that way?”
“I have a stop to make,” I lie smoothly. He knows where my clinic is, which means he must have looked it up. I push aside the little spark that pricks me with that awareness. “Congratulations. You know, on winning.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything more. Is this as awkward for him as it is for me?
I swallow against this uncomfortable feeling that swells in my chest, torn between wanting to stay but then remembering our last exchange and thus desperate to leave. “So, what have you been up to? Besides polishing all your trophies.” It wasn’t enough that Tyler won the race and the purse that comes with it, and the halfway gold nuggets, but he also walked away with the Rookie of the Year, the sportsmanship award for helping Larry in the gorge, and the coveted humanitarian award.
He offers a lazy smile. “You gave me one of those, didn’t you?”
I shrug, though he likely already knows that the vote by the trail veterinarians for the Leonhard Seppala was unanimous this year.
“I heard an animal control officer did an inspection of Zed Snyder’s kennel and jammed him up with a bunch of fines. Not having up-to-date rabies vaccinations, that sort of thing.”
Good ol’ Howie. “That’s unfortunate.”
“It is.” He studies me. “You haven’t come by to see the kennel at all. Why is that?”
“I’ve been busy.”
He reaches up to wipe a smear of mud off the top of my side-view mirror. “Really? Couldn’t come by once in three months?”
“You have a gate.”
He smirks. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“I’ll be sure to bring my bolt cutters next time I’m out this way, then.”
His eyes narrow on the empty road. “Or you could just follow me back now.”
His offer is tempting, for all the wrong reasons.
Far too tempting.
But what am I even doing? What’s the point? I already know where this leads—grave disappointment. “I can’t. I have a patient