Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

I extend a hand. “I’m just honored you’d come all this way to talk to me face-to-face. It’s usually the other way around for a job interview.”

He gives my hand a firm, steady shake. “I like to see potential team members in their element. It makes so much more sense to me.” He drops my hand. “I would’ve been here earlier, but I got caught behind a tractor.”

“What color . . . Actually,” I say, shaking my head, “say no more. Those tractors and I have had a few run-ins ourselves.”

He grins. “I’m glad you’re still here. I was afraid you’d be closed before I arrived.”

“We are actually done for the day, but I’m happy to stick around.”

A hand waves through the air as he sighs. “To be perfectly honest, I’m tired. Traveling exhausts me these days. I’m happy to go through everything tomorrow, if that works for you.”

“Yes. Of course.”

I walk through the doorway, and he follows. Dottie is nowhere to be seen. She mentioned earlier that she’d be gone right at five tonight for some bingo fundraiser at a church. Pap is at Birdie’s. That leaves just Mr. Montgomery and me.

A sense of trepidation wiggles through me. It feels unnatural to be standing in my grandfather’s clinic talking to another vet about leaving after Pap offered me a permanent place. I shake the chill away and refocus.

“May I ask where you’re staying?” I gather my keys and bag from behind the counter.

“At a place over in Rockery, I believe. I need to check my secretary’s email.”

“Well, my wife and I run a bed-and-breakfast here, and we’d love to have you stay with us tonight. It’ll save you a twenty-minute trip to Rockery.”

“Oh, you got married?”

“I did.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” His eyes light up. “If you have a vacancy, I’d be thrilled. Thank you.”

“Of course. Just follow me through town. It’s not far.”

“I’m parked out front,” he says.

“Great. Let me lock up. I’m driving a little silver car. Watch for me to pull up the alleyway, and then get behind me.”

He nods and leaves me to lock up.

So far, so good, I think as I tug my phone from my pocket. I find Sophie’s name.

Me: Dr. Montgomery is here. He’s going to stay with us. Are you okay with that?

I look at the words on the screen. An uncertainty fills my body as I realize what this means: it’s do-or-die time. And I don’t know if I do want the job or if it’ll cause a part of me to die.

The chat bubble blinks immediately. Her message pops up in seconds.

Sophie: I have the yellow room, and dinner, ready.

Me: See you soon.

“Something smells incredible,” Dr. Montgomery says, setting his overnight bag by the door.

He stands next to me in the foyer. Sophie’s office is to our right, and to our left is a formal dining room. Three places have been set—complete with linen napkins. Two taper candles glimmer on the mantel. The reflection of light in the large mirror hanging just above the wicks creates a warm, cozy setting.

Down the center of the burl wood, antique table is a blue runner. Sitting on top of the fabric are white dishes filled with food.

I’m floored. Utterly speechless. When Sophie texted me that she had dinner ready, I didn’t expect . . . this.

Sophie comes down the hallway. “Well, hello. You must be Dr. Montgomery.”

He nods appreciatively at my wife.

So do I.

She’s wearing a pale-pink dress that cinches at her waist. Her hair is down in a style that makes me think she got out of bed like that, except I know better. A pink stain tints her lips, and her cheeks are flushed.

She’s fucking gorgeous. Like, wife-mode gorgeous. A “this woman chose me and I’m wholly undeserving” kind of gorgeous.

I’m not expecting it, nor do I deserve it. Hell, it’s not even technically true. But that doesn’t stop me from puffing up like some asshole with a trophy wife.

Because damn.

I hold a hand toward her. She takes it as she reaches us with a wide smile. I slip my arm around the small of her back and try to will myself to behave.

“You must be Mrs. McKenzie,” Dr. Montgomery says. “I’m Timothy.”

“Well, Timothy, I’m Sophie, and I’m so happy you’re joining us tonight. I’ve made roasted chicken. I hope you’re hungry,” she says sweetly.

“I love roasted chicken. As a matter of fact, my wife made that the night I proposed to her,” he says as he follows her into the dining room. “I always tell her that it was the final nail in her coffin. I couldn’t possibly not marry a woman that could make a chicken like that.”

Sophie laughs. “I’m not sure that Holden married me for my cooking skills, but I must have done something right.”

“He must have,” Dr. Montgomery says, offering his elbow to my wife. “Hosting such a nice gathering is an art lost to most.”