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profession, I got involved with a local catch-and-release program just by accident after finding a litter of kittens under the stairwell in the apartment building I used to own and manage, and it just fit, I guess.”
    Jagger smiled that winning smile when he looked into her eyes, making her warm all over again. “Same here. Not the stairwell bit, but abandoned, injured animals. My mother could tell you some stories. Remember the first animal you rescued?”
    She giggled, rubbing her chin on Leviticus’s head. “A skunk when I was thirteen. Oh God, it was dreadful. But he was limping along in an alleyway and at first, and like most of these stories go, I thought he was a cat. I couldn’t see him very well, but he took care of that. Sprayed me from head to toe.” Viv made a face and wrinkled her nose. “I brought that poor thing back to my parents’ house and put him in our cat Biddlesbottom’s cage and insisted my mom take me to the vet to patch him up. Got myself grounded for a week for being out so late and making everything I touched stink to high heaven, but from that point on, when I realized there were people who actually cared about the welfare animals as though they had rights to decency and compassion, too, I wanted to find out everything I could about saving as many as possible.”
    “Ever thought about being a vet?”
    Viv let her chin rest on her hand. “You know, I struggled with that for a long time. But I decided I’m not badass enough to have to hand down a death sentence—even out of necessity—to a beloved pet’s family. I just don’t have it in me. I’d end up sobbing in a puddle of tears when I’m supposed to be the one offering sympathy and answers. I’m an utter marshmallow. So I helped where I could by fostering, transporting, and did what I do best instead.”
    He cocked an eyebrow, his eyes amused. “Which is?”
    Viv grinned. “Charity fundraisers. Nobody can wring cash out of an old blueblood like this girl here. So what about you? Remember your first rescue?”
    Jagger straightened, the bright lights inside the van making his chin-level dark hair glossy, but he was still smiling, probably at the memory. “A squirrel when I was ten. Abandoned by his mother. I found him half dead under a big oak tree back home. Scooped him up, named him R.L. Stine, nursed him back to health, never looked back. I knew from the second I successfully kept him alive with all those feedings and research on how to raise a squirrel it was what I wanted to do with my life.”
    “A squirrel named after the author of the Goosebumps series. So you read, too? Okay, what horrible secret are you hiding?”
    “Secret?” he asked as he finished the last stitch then pulled the gloves from his hands. He leaned against the table, cocking his head in question.
    “You like animals, you’re funny, you’re compassionate, self-sufficient, you have a nice, well-kept house, a dog named Scar, and you read. It almost sounds too good to be true. So what’s the big secret you’re keeping? Do you collect Barbie heads or something?” she joked, sitting back on the stool to look up at him.
    Jagger held up his big hands in a white-flag submission. “Ya caught me. But it’s not Barbie I’m into. It’s Skipper. You wanna come back to my place when we’re done here and I’ll show you my collection?”
    “Are they in hermetically sealed glass cases to protect them from the elements?”
    “Duh. Is there any other way?”
    Laughter gurgled from her throat again. “I’m being serious.”
    He pretended offense when he planted his hands on his lean hips. “Like I’m not?”
    “So where’s home?”
    “Alaska.”
    “Wow. You’re a ways away from home.”
    “I am. But I got a scholarship here in the northeast, went to school and nabbed an internship with a doctor in New York. Been in this part of the world since then.”
    “Family?”
    He smiled fondly, leaving her to believe he was also family oriented. “Only