Didn’t matter that maybe he thought about her when he was in the shower. Or when Libby was talking a mile a minute in his ear. Or when he brushed his too-long, overgrown hair and wondered what she’d think of it. She was not his type. She wouldn’t last a day in the wilds of Alaska, and he was going to head back there soon enough.

Theoretically. He still hadn’t figured that part out yet.

And now Becca Loftis was here. Her name was just about imprinted in his mind, because he thought about it often, just like he thought about the pink curve of her lips and the soft eyes that even now smiled up at him.

She’d looked just as surprised to see Hank as he was to see her, and her gaze had gone to his mouth, hovering there so long that he couldn’t help but notice.

And that made him feel . . . things. Things he’d sworn off for good. It was bad that he was noticing the way she looked or how she smiled. He couldn’t get involved with a woman, especially one as soft and probably helpless as her.

So he scowled in her direction and gestured that she should follow him.

“I promise I’m not trying to be intrusive,” she chattered as he led her down the hall and toward the far end of the house, where Uncle Ennis’s vet clinic was set up. “I just knew Hannah was busy and I wasn’t, so I thought I’d help out. I’m sorry if it felt unwelcome. I really did mean no harm. I just figured while I was bringing groceries, maybe Doc would want a haircut, or some company. He’s a good man, you know.”

The woman wasn’t wrong. Doc probably would love the company. It was just . . . did it have to be her? But he supposed it wasn’t his call to make.

“I feel like you’re uncomfortable around me and that wasn’t my intention,” Becca said as he opened a door and led her through. She paused in the doorway and looked up at him. “Can we just forget that I asked you out? I’d rather that we were friends.”

Hank stared at her. Friends? With a woman? He wasn’t sure he knew how to be friends with someone like her. Her hair smelled like fruit, and her lightweight jacket had a ruff of white fur on the collar. She was wearing boots with tiny little heels, for fuck’s sake, boots that would sink into the mud immediately and did nothing for her height. If she was wearing plaid and had a skinning knife at her belt, sure, maybe they could be friends. As it was, he wouldn’t know the first thing to say to her. And friendship meant . . . expectations.

“I don’t think so,” he said.